Bel Canto(25)

She had no idea whether or not the man who played the piano for her had a relationship with God, much less what church that relationship might be conducted through. She shrugged. At least she could communicate with the priest this much.

“Católica?” he said, strictly for his own curiosity, and pointed, politely, to her.

“Me?” she said, touching the front of her dress. “Yes.” Then she nodded. “Sí, Católica.” Two simple words but she was proud of herself for answering in Spanish.

He smiled at that. As for the accompanist, if he was dying, if he was Catholic, those were two fairly big ifs. But where the matter of the soul’s everlasting rest was concerned, it was better to err on the side of caution. If he mistakenly gave last rites to a Jew who then recovered, what harm had he done but taken up a little bit of his time, the time of an unconscious political hostage at that. He patted Roxane’s hand. It was like a child’s hand! So pale and soft, rounded on the top. On one finger she wore a dark green stone the size of a quail’s egg that was surrounded in a fiery ring of diamonds. Normally, when he saw women wearing rings like that he wished they would make them contributions to the poor, but today found himself imagining the pleasure of gently sliding such a ring onto her finger. This thought, he was sure, was inappropriate, and he felt a nervous dampness creep across his forehead. And he without a handkerchief. He excused himself to go and speak to the Generals.

“That man there,” Father Arguedas said, lowering his voice, “I believe he is dying.”

“He isn’t dying,” General Alfredo said. “He’s trying to get her out. He is pretending to die.”

“I don’t believe so. The pulse, the color of the skin.” He looked back over his shoulder, past the grand piano and huge bouquets of lilies and roses arranged for a party long since over, to the spot where the accompanist lay on the edge of carpet like something large and spilled. “Some things one can’t pretend.”

“He chose to stay. We put him out the door and he came back. Those are not the actions of a dying man.” General Alfredo turned his head away. He rubbed his hand. Ten years those fingers had been gone and still they ached.

“Go back to where you were told to wait,” General Benjamin said to the priest. He was enjoying a breath of false relief seeing half of the people gone, as if half of his problems were solved. He knew it to be false but he wanted some quiet time in which to enjoy it. The room looked wide open.

“I would like some oil from the kitchen to perform last rites.”

“No kitchen,” General Benjamin said, wagging his head. He lit a cigarette in order to be rude to the young priest. He wanted the priest and the accompanist to have left when they were told to leave. People shouldn’t be allowed to decide that they wished to remain a hostage. He had very little experience being rude to priests and he needed the cigarette as a prop. He shook out the match and dropped it on the carpet. He wanted to blow the smoke forward but could not.

“I can do it without the oil,” Father Arguedas said.

“No last rites,” General Alfredo said. “He isn’t dying.”

“I was only asking for the oil,” the priest said respectfully. “I wasn’t asking about the last rites.”

Each of the Generals meant to stop him, to slap him, to have one of the soldiers march him back in line with a gun in his back, but none felt able to do so. That was either the power of the Church or the power of the opera singer leaning over the man they took to be her lover. Father Arguedas returned to Roxane Coss and her accompanist. She had unbuttoned the top of his shirt and was listening to his chest. Her hair spilled over his neck and shoulders in a way that would have thrilled the accompanist immeasurably if he had been conscious, but she could not wake him. Nor could the priest. Father Arguedas knelt beside him and began the prayer of last rites. Perhaps it was grander when one had the vestments and robes, when there was oil to work with, the beauty of candles, but a simple prayer felt in some ways closer to God. He hoped the accompanist was a Catholic. He hoped that his soul would speed towards the open arms of Christ.

“God the father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace.” Father Arguedas felt a rush of tenderness for this man, an almost choking bond of love. He had played for her. He had heard her voice day after day and been shaped by it. With great sincerity he whispered, “I absolve you from your sins,” into the chalk-white ear. And truly, he did forgive the accompanist for everything he might have done, “in the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Last rites?” Roxane Coss said, taking the cold, damp hand that had worked so tirelessly on her behalf. She didn’t know the language, but the rituals of Catholicism were recognizable anywhere. This could not be a good sign.

“Through the holy mysteries of our redemption, may almighty God release you from all punishments in this life and in the life to come. May He open to you the gates of paradise and welcome you to everlasting joy.”

Roxane Coss looked dazed, as if the hypnotist had swung his watch but had not yet snapped his fingers. “He was a very good pianist,” she said. She wanted to join in, but frankly, no longer remembered the prayers. She added, “He was punctual.”