The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [69]
Let me see: let me understand. Emilio held out his hands because, hideous as he found them, they were far easier to display than what was inside him. Gently, Felipe pulled the gloves away and as the mutilation was revealed, there was the familiar whir of servomotors and microgears, the metallic susurration of mechanical joints, but strangely muffled by the overlayment of extraordinarily lifelike artificial skin.
Felipe took Emilio’s fingers in his own cool mechanical hands. "Father Singh is brilliant, isn’t he. It’s hard to believe now but I actually made do with hooks for a while! Even after he made the prostheses, I was pretty depressed," Felipe admitted. "We never did find out who sent the letter bomb, or why. But the strange thing is, after a while, I was even grateful for what happened. You see, I am happy where I am today, so I am thankful for each step that took me here."
There was a silence. Felipe Reyes’s hips were beginning to get arthritic and he suddenly felt like the old man he was becoming, getting to his feet and watching the bitterness transform Emilio’s face.
"That bastard! Did Voelker send for you?" He was up now, moving away from Felipe, pacing, putting distance between them. "I wondered why he didn’t leave a biography of Isaac Jogues next to my bed. He had something better, didn’t he. An old friend of mine who’s got it worse. That sonofabitch!" Sandoz said, incredulous, fluent in his fury. He suddenly stopped and turned on Felipe. "Did you come here to tell me to count my blessings, Felipe? Am I supposed to be inspired?"
Felipe Reyes pulled himself to his full, if modest, height and looked frankly at Emilio, whom he had idolized in youth and whom he still wanted to love, in spite of everything. "It wasn’t Voelker, Father. The Father General asked me to come."
Sandoz went very still. When he spoke, his voice had the quiet, nearly calm sound of viciously controlled anger. "Ah. Your task then is to shame me for making such a fuss. For wallowing in self-pity."
Felipe found there was nothing he could say and, helpless, let the silence linger, Sandoz watching him like a snake. Suddenly, the man’s eyes lit up dangerously. Comprehension dawning, Felipe knew.
"And the hearings, too?" Sandoz asked, the voice caressing now, brows up, mouth open slightly, waiting for confirmation. Felipe nodded. To bitterness, Sandoz added amused contempt. "And the hearings. Of course! God!" he cried, in direct address. "It’s perfect. Just the sort of creative touch I’ve come to expect. And you here as devil’s advocate, Felipe?"
"It’s not an inquisition, Father. You know that. I’m just here to help—"
"Yes," Emilio said softly, with a smile that left his eyes untouched. "To help find the truth. To make me talk."
Felipe Reyes endured Emilio’s gaze as long as he could. He looked away finally, but he could not close out the soft savage voice.
"You can’t imagine the truth. I lived it, Felipe. I have to live with it now. You tell them: the hands are nothing. You tell them: self-pity would be an improvement. It doesn’t matter what I say. It doesn’t matter what I tell you. None of you will ever know what it was like. And I promise you: you don’t want to know."
When Felipe looked up, Sandoz was gone.
VINCENZO GIULIANI, BACK in his Rome office, was informed of the fiasco within the hour.
In truth, the Father General had not summoned Felipe Reyes to serve as Emilio Sandoz’s prosecutor. There would be no trial, no devil’s advocate, not even in the loose colloquial sense that Emilio had used. The aim of the coming inquiry was to help the Society plan its next moves regarding Rakhat. Reyes was a well-respected specialist in comparative religious studies whom Giuliani expected to be of use as Sandoz worked his way through the details of the Rakhat mission. But there was no use denying it. The Father General had also hoped that Felipe Reyes, who had known Sandoz in better days