"I like my nose!" she cried indignantly. "I have your eyes, too. Mamma always told me that when I got angry: You have your father’s eyes!"
He laughed again, not quite sure how to feel about that, "Were you angry a lot?"
"No. I don’t think so. Well, I have my moods, I suppose." She drew herself up formally and said, "I am Ariana Fiore. You are Emilio Sandoz, I presume?"
He was really laughing now, the tears forgotten. "I can’t believe it," he said, shaking his head. "I can’t believe it!" He looked around, dazed, and then moved over on the bench and said, "Please, sit down. Do you come here often? Listen to me! I sound like I’m trying to pick you up in a bar! Do they still have bars?"
They talked and talked, as the afternoon light washed their faces with gold, Ariana filling him in on the barest outlines of the years of his absence. "Celestina’s the chief set designer at the Teatro San Carlo," she told him. "She’s been married four times so far—"
"Four? My God!" he said, eyes wide. "Has it ever occurred to her that she should rent, not buy?"
"That is exactly what I told her!" Ariana cried, feeling as though she had known this man all her life. "To be honest," she said, "I think perhaps—"
"She leaves them before they can leave her," he suggested.
Ariana grimaced, but then confided, "Honestly—she is such a drama queen! I swear she gets married because she likes the weddings. You should see the parties she throws! You probably will, before long— she’s on tour with the opera company right now, and that’s usually bad news for her current husband. Now, when Giampaolo and I got married, we had five friends and the magistrate—but we really earned the party we had for our tenth anniversary last year!"
Roused by the talk and the laughter, the baby stretched and whimpered. They both watched, quiet and in suspense. When it seemed likely that the child would not awaken, Ariana spoke again, very softly now. "I finally got pregnant just after Mamma died. You know what we say at New Year’s?"
"Buon fine, buon principio," he said. "A good end, a good beginning."
"Yes. I was hoping for a girl. I thought it would be as though Mamma had come back, somehow." She smiled and shrugged, and reached out to touch the baby’s plump and downy cheek. "His name is Tommaso."
"How did your mother die?" he asked at last.
"Well, you know she was a nurse. After I started school, she went back to work. You left us very well provided for, but she wanted to be of use." Emilio nodded, face still. "Anyway, there was an epidemic—they still haven’t isolated the pathogen—it’s all over the world now. For some reason, older women were hit hardest. They called it the Nonna Disease here in Naples because it killed so many grandmothers. The last coherent thing Mamma said was, ’God’s got a lot of explaining to do.’»
Emilio wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve and laughed. "That sounds like Gina."
For a long while, they did not speak but only listened to the birdsong and the conversations around them. "Of course," Ariana said as though no time had passed, "God never explains. When life breaks your heart, you’re just supposed to pick up the pieces and start over, I guess."
She glanced down at Tommaso, sleeping in his stroller. Needing the comfort of his warm, little body, she leaned over and lifted him carefully, one hand behind his peach-fuzz head, the other under his little bottom. After a time, she smiled at her father and asked, "Would you like to hold your grandson?"
Kids and babies, he thought. Don’t do this to me again.
But there was no way to resist. He looked at this undreamt-of daughter and at her tiny child—frowning and milky in dreamless sleep—and found room in the crowded necropolis of his heart.
"Yes," he said finally, amazed and resigned and somehow content. "Yes. I would like that very much."
Acknowledgments
ONCE AGAIN, I WOULD LIKE TO MAKE KNOWN A FEW OF MY SOURCES. John Candotti’s insight into Exodus 33:17–23 is from the Chatam Sofer (quoted in Sparks Beneath the Surface, by Lawrence Kushner). The geneticist Susumu Ohno has, in real life, converted the genetic code for slime mold and mice into musical notation; the results reportedly resemble something by Bach, although harmony has yet to be discovered in the sequences. The extraordinary autobiographies of Temple Grandin and Donna Williams were windows into autism, as was a searingly honest and beautiful book, The Siege, by Clara Claiborne Park. The poem whose refrain is "The meat defiant…" is "Counterattack," by Wladyslaw Szlengel, quoted in I Remember Nothing More, by Adina Blady Szwajger. Sean Fein and I learned all our chemistry from Bettye Kaplan and from Water, Ice and Stone, by Bill Green, whose prose is as translucently beautiful as the Antarctic lakes he studies. Two songs were often on my mind as I wrote: Robbie Robertson’s «Testimony» and Richard Strauss’s "Beim Schlafengehn."
Maura Kirby was there at the conception of this book. Kate Sweeney and Jennifer Tucker helped me on a daily basis during its gestation and stood by me during the long labor to bring it forth; they have both taught me a great deal about the ferocity of the artist. Mary Dewing not only taught me to write, she also taught me (and Nico) to appreciate opera. David Kennedy, Aitor Esteban and Roberto Marino helped with details of Belfastian English, Euskara and Neapolitan Italian, respectively. My initial reaction to criticism is always to hide behind the furnace and suck my thumb; nevertheless, the following people told me what I needed to know about early versions of this book, and each of them showed me ways to improve it: Ray Bucko, S.J.; Miriam Goderich; Tomasz and Maria Rybak; Vivian Singer; Marty Connell, S.J.; Ellie D’Addio; Richard Doria, Sr.; Louise Dewing Doria; Rod Tulonen; Ken Foster; Kathie Colonnese; Paula Sanch; Judith Roth; Leslie Turek; Delia Sherman; and Kevin Ballard, S.J. One of the great and enduring benefits of having written The Sparrow has been the friendship offered me by many members of the Society of Jesus; I hope they will forgive me for the kidnapping in this book. Vince Giuliani and I knew it was a lousy thing to do, but we just couldn’t think of any other way to get Emilio to go back to Rakhat!
No one could ask for an agent more resourceful and canny than Jane Dystel, and I am so glad that her associate Miriam Goderich finally talked her into taking a look at The Sparrow! Leona Nevler and David Rosenthal took the initial leap of faith that made this book and The Sparrow possible, and I will always be grateful to them. The staff at Villard and Ballantine have been uniformly wonderful, but special thanks go to Brian McLendon, whose skill as a publicist is matched by his humor and good sense, and to Marysue Rucci, who accomplished a seamless editorial transition, and to Dennis Ambrose for his cheerful patience with my last-minute changes. Thanks also to the salespeople at Random House and in bookstores, who hand-sold The Sparrow, and to the many readers who were kind enough to tell me that they were glad I quit anthro and took a flier at fiction. I know how much I owe you all, and I hope Children of God lived up to your expectations.
Finally, immeasurable love and gratitude to Don and Daniel, my very best husband and my very best son, whose support and affection and patience and laughter nourish my soul. Thanks, guys.
M.D.R
Children of God
MARY DORIA RUSSELL
A Reader’s Guide
Q: How would you describe the themes of this book?
MDR: The Sparrow was about the role of religion in the lives of many people, from atheist to mystic, and about the role of religion in history, from the Age of Discovery to the Space Age. I suppose that Children of God is about the aftermath of irreversible tragedy, about the many ways that we struggle to make sense of tragedy. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves, and the ways we justify our decisions, to bring ourselves to some kind of peace. And I guess it’s about the way time reveals significance, strips away self-serving excuses, lays truth bare, and both blunts pain and sharpens insight.