Excerpt of A Thread of Grace by Mary Doria Russell
(Page 2 of 5)
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Christ, you're homely.
Schramm wipes his mouth on his sleeve, wondering if he has spoken aloud. For
years, words have threatened to pour out, like blood from his throat. He fears
hemorrhage.
Shivering in the heat, he makes a move toward the door. The nun bars his way.
"La chiesa è chiusa!" she says, but Schramm pushes past her.
The baptistry reeks of carbolic, incense, explosives, and charred stone. Three
novices scour its limestone floor. The prettiest sits on her heels, her face
smudged with soot from the firebomb's damage. Calmly, she studies the Luger
dangling in this German's right hand. Behind him, Sister Beer Keg snaps her
fingers. Eyes drop. Work resumes.
Schramm shoves the pistol into its holster, pulls off his campaign cap, and
rubs a sweaty palm over cropped brown hair. The nave is empty apart from a
single man who ambles down the center aisle, neck cranked back like a
cormorant's, hands clasped loosely behind his back. This personage studies
the swirling seraphim and whey-faced saints above, himself an allegorical
portrait come to life: Unconcern in a Silver-Gray Suit.
Distracted by the tourist, Schramm takes a step toward the confessionals and
trips over a bucket of water. "Scheisse," he swears, hopping away from the
spill.
"Basta!" the fat nun declares, pulling him toward the door.
"Io need ein padre!" he insists, but his Italian is two decades old—the
fading souvenir of a year in Florence. The Beer Keg shakes her head. Standing
his ground, Schramm points at a confessional. "Un padre, understand?"
"La chiesa è chiusa!"
"I know the church is closed! But I need—"
"A strong black coffee?" the tourist suggests pleasantly. His German is
Tyrolean, but there's no mistaking the graceful confidence of an Italian
male who employs a superb tailor. "A medical officer!" he says, noting the
insignia on Schramm's collar. "You speak the language of Dante most
vigorously, Herr Doktor, but the people of this region generally use a
Ligurian dialect, not the classical Italian you are—"
"Butchering," Schramm supplies, with flat accuracy.
"Striving for, one might have said. With your permission, I can explain to
Suora Marta that you're seeking a priest who speaks German."
Schramm listens hard, but their dialect is as thick as an Austrian's head,
and he gives up until the tourist translates. "Suora tells me Archbishop
Tirassa's assistant speaks excellent German. Confessions, however, will not
be heard again until Saturday." When Schramm begins to protest, the Italian
holds up a conciliatory hand. "I shall point out that in time of war, the
angel of death is more capricious than usual. Preparation for his arrival
should not be delayed."
The man's voice becomes a soothing melody of persuasion and practicality.
Schramm watches Suora Marta's face. She reminds him of his mother's
sister, a Vincentian nun equally short and dumpy and ugly. "Like Papa used
t'say, ‘Christ'll take what nobody else wants.' "
"And so there is hope, even for pigs like you," the nun replies.
Schramm's jaw drops. A stunned laugh escapes his interpreter. Eyes
fearlessly on Schramm's own, Suora Marta removes her rubber gloves and
apron. Without hurry, she untucks her habit, straightens her gown, folds her
outer sleeves back to the proper cuff length. Hands sliding beneath her
scapular, she gives Schramm one last dirty look before gliding away with
chubby dignity.
Schramm tips a mouthful of brandy down his throat. "Verdammte Scheisse! Why
didn' you tell me she speaks German?"
Excerpted from A Thread of Grace by Mary Doria Russell, pages
9-16. Copyright © 2005 by Mary Doria
Russell. Excerpted by permission of Random House, a division of Random
House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced
or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
