The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [3]
"I have nothing to say." Sandoz turned away again. "I shall withdraw from the Society."
"Father Sandoz—Father, you can’t expect the Society to let you walk away without understanding what happened out there. You may not want to face a hearing but whatever happens in here is nothing compared to what they’ll put you through outside, the moment you walk out the door," John told him. "If we understood, we could help you. Make it easier for you, maybe?" There was no reply, only a slight hardening of the face profiled at the window. "Okay, look. I’ll come back in a few days. When you’re feeling better, right? Is there anything I can bring you? Someone I could contact for you?"
"No." There was no force behind the voice. "Thank you."
John suppressed a sigh and turned toward the door. His eyes swept past a sketch, lying on top of the small plain bureau. On something like paper, drawn in something like ink. A group of VaRakhati. Faces of great dignity and considerable charm. Extraordinary eyes, frilled with lashes to guard against the brilliant sunlight. Funny how you could tell that these were unusually handsome individuals, even when unfamiliar with their standards of beauty. John Candotti lifted the drawing to look at it more closely. Sandoz stood and took two swift steps toward him.
Sandoz was probably half his size and sicker than hell but John Candotti, veteran of Chicago streets, was startled into retreating. Feeling the wall against his back, he covered his embarrassment with a smile and put the drawing back on the bureau. "They’re a handsome race, aren’t they," he offered, trying to defuse whatever emotion was working on the man in front of him. "The ... folks in the picture—friends of yours, I guess?"
Sandoz backed away and looked at John for a few moments, as though calculating the other man’s response. The daylight behind his hair lit it up, and the contrast hid his expression. If the room had been brighter or if John Candotti had known him better, he might have recognized a freakish solemnity that preceded any statement Sandoz expected to induce hilarity, or outrage. Sandoz hesitated and then found the precise word he wanted.
"Colleagues," he said at last.
JOHANNES VOELKER CLOSED his notescreen at the end of his regular morning meeting with the Father General but did not rise to leave. Instead, he sat and watched Vincenzo Giuliani’s face as the old man appeared to concentrate on the work at hand, logging his own notes about the day’s events and the decisions they’d just discussed.
Thirty-fourth to hold the office of Father General, Giuliani was an impressive executive. A big man, attractively bald, straight and formidably strong in old age. Historian by profession, politician by nature, Vincenzo Giuliani had brought the Society of Jesus through difficult times, repairing some of the damage Sandoz had caused. Steering men into hydrology and Islamic studies—that had restored some goodwill. Without Jesuits in Iran and Egypt, there’d have been no warning at all before the last attack. Credit where credit is due, Voelker thought, waiting patiently for Giuliani to notice him.
The Father General sighed and looked up at his secretary, an unappealing man in his middle thirties, inclined to fatness, sandy hair lying flat against his skull. Voelker was a silent picture of unfinished business, sitting back in his chair, arms folded across his thickening waist. "All right, out with it. Say what you have to say," Giuliani ordered irritably.
"Sandoz."
"What about him?"
"My point exactly."
Giuliani went back to his notes.
"People were starting to forget," Voelker said. "It might have been better for everyone if Sandoz had been killed along with the rest of them."
"Why, Father Voelker," Giuliani said aridly. "What an unworthy thought."
Voelker made a mouth and looked away.
Giuliani stared out the windows of his office for a few moments,