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Authors: Mary Doria Russell
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because his Jesuit superiors knew he was almost genetically programmed to despise assholes like his beloved brother in Christ, Johannes Voelker.
John was so anxious to get away from Rome himself that he didnât want to inquire too closely into the Father Generalâs permission to leave. Just play the cards the way they lay, he told himself, and hope that God is on Emilioâs side.
O N E ASTER WEEKEND, the Vatican was packed with the faithful: 250,000 people, there to receive the Popeâs blessing, to pray, to gawk, to buy souvenirs, to have their pockets picked. The Jihad promised bombs, and security was tight, but no one noticed a sickly man bent over his own lap, wrapped against the April chill, being wheeled out of the plaza by a big guy in a popular tourist jacket that proclaimed VESUVIUS 2, POMPEII 0. Anyone watching might only have been surprised at how easily they flagged down a central city taxi.
"Driver?" Sandoz asked as John belted him into the back seat. He sounded close to tears. The crowds, John supposed, and the noise. The fear of being recognized and mobbed.
"Brother Edward," John told him.
Edward Behr, in a cabbieâs uniform, raised a dimpled hand in greeting from the front seat before turning his attention back to the streets. Outlawing private vehicles in the city had reduced the density of traffic but acted as Darwinian selection pressure for the most combative drivers. Edward Behr was, for good reason, an exceptionally careful driver.
John Candotti settled into the seat next to Sandoz and got comfortable, pleased with himself and with the day and with the world. "A clean getaway," he said aloud as Edward pulled onto the clogged autostrada to Naples. He turned to Sandoz, hoping that heâd caught the infectious, boyish spirit of getting away with something, of skipping school for a day of stolen freedom â¦Â And saw instead a desperately tired man, slumped in the seat beside him, eyes closed against a jarring, exhausting journey through the city, against new pain layered over scurvyâs constant hemorrhagic ache and a damnable bone-deep weariness that rest could not remedy.
In the silence, Johnâs eyes met those of Brother Edward, who had seen the same man in the rearview mirror, and he watched Edâs smile fade, just as his own did. They were quiet after that, so Brother Edward could better concentrate on feathering the turns and smoothing out the ride while driving as fast as he dared.
T HE ROUTINELY AWFUL traffic through the Rome-Naples sprawl was made worse by additional security checkpoints, but Giuliani had eased their way and they got through relatively quickly, stopping only to let young soldiers mirror the undercarriage and make cursory searches through the luggage. It was just dusk when they arrived at the Naples house, a Tristano design from the early 1560sâuninspired but sturdy and practical. They were met at the door by a mercifully taciturn priest, who escorted them without fuss to their quarters.
Brother Edward accompanied Sandoz inside his room and watched as Emilio lowered himself to the bed and lay back, inert, an arm thrown across his eyes against the overhead light.
"Iâll unpack for you, shall I, sir?" Edward asked, setting the valise on the floor.
There was a small sound of assent so Edward began putting clothes in the bureau. Taking the braces out of Sandozâs bag, he hesitated: it was he and not Emilio who had begun to look for excuses to avoid the practice sessions. "Skip them tonight, sir?" he suggested, straightening from the bureau drawer and turning toward the man on the bed. "Let me bring you something to eat and then you can get some sleep."
Sandoz gave a short hard laugh. " âTo sleep: perchance to dream.â No, Edward, sleep is not what I need tonight." He moved his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, holding an arm out. "Letâs get it over with."
This was what Edward had come to dread: the
John was so anxious to get away from Rome himself that he didnât want to inquire too closely into the Father Generalâs permission to leave. Just play the cards the way they lay, he told himself, and hope that God is on Emilioâs side.
O N E ASTER WEEKEND, the Vatican was packed with the faithful: 250,000 people, there to receive the Popeâs blessing, to pray, to gawk, to buy souvenirs, to have their pockets picked. The Jihad promised bombs, and security was tight, but no one noticed a sickly man bent over his own lap, wrapped against the April chill, being wheeled out of the plaza by a big guy in a popular tourist jacket that proclaimed VESUVIUS 2, POMPEII 0. Anyone watching might only have been surprised at how easily they flagged down a central city taxi.
"Driver?" Sandoz asked as John belted him into the back seat. He sounded close to tears. The crowds, John supposed, and the noise. The fear of being recognized and mobbed.
"Brother Edward," John told him.
Edward Behr, in a cabbieâs uniform, raised a dimpled hand in greeting from the front seat before turning his attention back to the streets. Outlawing private vehicles in the city had reduced the density of traffic but acted as Darwinian selection pressure for the most combative drivers. Edward Behr was, for good reason, an exceptionally careful driver.
John Candotti settled into the seat next to Sandoz and got comfortable, pleased with himself and with the day and with the world. "A clean getaway," he said aloud as Edward pulled onto the clogged autostrada to Naples. He turned to Sandoz, hoping that heâd caught the infectious, boyish spirit of getting away with something, of skipping school for a day of stolen freedom â¦Â And saw instead a desperately tired man, slumped in the seat beside him, eyes closed against a jarring, exhausting journey through the city, against new pain layered over scurvyâs constant hemorrhagic ache and a damnable bone-deep weariness that rest could not remedy.
In the silence, Johnâs eyes met those of Brother Edward, who had seen the same man in the rearview mirror, and he watched Edâs smile fade, just as his own did. They were quiet after that, so Brother Edward could better concentrate on feathering the turns and smoothing out the ride while driving as fast as he dared.
T HE ROUTINELY AWFUL traffic through the Rome-Naples sprawl was made worse by additional security checkpoints, but Giuliani had eased their way and they got through relatively quickly, stopping only to let young soldiers mirror the undercarriage and make cursory searches through the luggage. It was just dusk when they arrived at the Naples house, a Tristano design from the early 1560sâuninspired but sturdy and practical. They were met at the door by a mercifully taciturn priest, who escorted them without fuss to their quarters.
Brother Edward accompanied Sandoz inside his room and watched as Emilio lowered himself to the bed and lay back, inert, an arm thrown across his eyes against the overhead light.
"Iâll unpack for you, shall I, sir?" Edward asked, setting the valise on the floor.
There was a small sound of assent so Edward began putting clothes in the bureau. Taking the braces out of Sandozâs bag, he hesitated: it was he and not Emilio who had begun to look for excuses to avoid the practice sessions. "Skip them tonight, sir?" he suggested, straightening from the bureau drawer and turning toward the man on the bed. "Let me bring you something to eat and then you can get some sleep."
Sandoz gave a short hard laugh. " âTo sleep: perchance to dream.â No, Edward, sleep is not what I need tonight." He moved his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, holding an arm out. "Letâs get it over with."
This was what Edward had come to dread: the
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