The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [218]
"Matthew ten, verse twenty-nine," Vincenzo Giuliani said quietly. " ’Not one sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it."’
"But the sparrow still falls," Felipe said.
They sat for a while, wrapped in their private musings.
"You know, he was always a good priest," Felipe told them, remembering, "but it must have been about the time that they were planning the mission, something changed in him. It was like, I don’t know, sometimes he would just—ignite." Felipe’s hands moved, making a shape like fireworks. "There was something in his face, so beautiful. And I thought, if that’s what it’s like to be a priest ... It was like he fell in love with God."
"Offhand," said the Father General wearily, in a voice dry as August grass, "I’d say the honeymoon is over."
THE SUN WAS already fairly high when Edward Behr awoke to the sound of a coffee cup rattling on a saucer. Blinking, he sat up in the wooden chair where he’d spent the night and groaned. He saw Emilio Sandoz standing by the night table, carefully setting the coffee down, the servos releasing his grip almost as quickly as natural movement might have.
"What time is it?" Ed asked, rubbing his neck.
"A little after eight," Sandoz told him. Wearing a T-shirt and a pair of baggy pants, he sat on the edge of his bed and watched Brother Edward stretch and scrub at his eyes with his pudgy hands. "Thank you. For staying with me."
Brother Edward looked at him, sizing things up. "How do you feel?"
"Okay," Emilio said simply. "I feel okay."
Emilio stood and stepped over to the window, holding the curtain aside, but couldn’t see much: just the garage and a little bit of hillside. "I used to be a pretty fair middle-distance runner," he said conversationally. "I did about half a kilometer this morning. Had to walk most of it." He shrugged. "It’s a start."
"It’s a start," Edward Behr agreed. "You did well with the coffee, too."
"Yeah. Didn’t crush the cup. Only spilled a little." He let the curtain fall. "I’m going to go get cleaned up."
"Need any help?"
"No. Thanks. I can manage."
No anger, Brother Edward noticed. He watched Emilio open the drawer and pull out clean clothes. It took a while, but he did fine. As Sandoz moved toward the door, Brother Edward spoke again. "It’s not over, you know," he warned. "You don’t get over something like that all at once."
Emilio stared at the floor for a while and then looked up. "Yes. I know." He stood still a few moments and then asked, "What were you, before? A nurse? A therapist?"
Edward Behr snorted and reached for the coffee. "Not even close. I was a stockbroker. I specialized in undervalued companies." He didn’t expect Sandoz to understand. The generality of priests, vowed to poverty, were hopelessly ignorant of finance. "It involved recognizing the worth of things that other people discounted."
Sandoz didn’t see the connection. "Were you good at it?"
"Oh, yes. I was very good at it." Brother Edward held up his cup and said, "Thanks for the coffee."
He watched Sandoz go and then, sitting very still, in silence, Edward Behr began his morning prayers.
AT TEN, THERE was a metallic rap at the Father General’s door, and when he called out, "Come in," he was not surprised to see Emilio Sandoz enter the office, managing the lever without any hesitation and shutting the door behind him.
Giuliani started to stand, but Emilio said, "No, please. Sit down. I just wanted—I wanted to thank you. That couldn’t have been easy for you to do."
"It was brutal," Vince Giuliani admitted. "And all I had to do was listen."
"No. You did more than that." Sandoz looked around the office, which seemed oddly empty. Unexpectedly, he gave a short laugh and his hands went to his hair, as if to run his fingers through it, an old nervous habit, now likely to tangle the joint mechanisms of the braces. He let his hands fall. "Sorry about the table. Was it valuable?"
"Priceless."
"Figures."
"Forget it." Giuliani sat back in his chair. "So. You seem