Bel Canto(30)

“Would you like me to tell her?”

“What?”

“About the accompanist,” Gen said.

Mr. Hosokawa looked to Roxane Coss, whose face was still turned behind the curtain of her own hair. Even though there were men sitting on the sofa where she sat, she was clearly alone. The priest was near her but not with her. His eyes were closed and his lips shaped small, silent words of prayer. “Oh, I’m sure she knows it.” Then he added doubtfully, “I’m sure everyone has told her.”

Gen did not press his point. He waited. It was not his role to advise Mr. Hosokawa. He knew the secret was to wait and let him come to his own conclusions.

“If it doesn’t appear to be disturbing her,” he said, “perhaps you could give my condolences. Tell her I thought her accompanist was a brave and talented man.” He looked at Gen directly, something that was uncommon between them.

“What if I am responsible for this death?” he said.

“How could that be possible?”

“It was my birthday. They came here for me.”

“They came here to work,” Gen said. “They don’t know you.”

Mr. Hosokawa, the day after his fifty-third birthday, looked suddenly old. He had made a mistake, accepting such a gift, and now it seemed to be pulling the years from his life. “Tell her, though, tell her I am especially grieved.”

Gen nodded, stood up, and crossed the room. It was a huge room. Even if you didn’t count the grand entry hall on one end and dining room on the other, the living room was cavernous, with three separate areas set up with couches and chairs, living rooms within living rooms. The furniture had been moved aside for the recital and then had slowly been dragged back into mismatched configurations as the remaining guests made themselves comfortable. If there had been a reception desk it would have seemed very much like an enormous hotel lobby. If there had been a piano player, Gen thought, but then stopped himself. Roxane Coss was alone, but not too far away a young terrorist stood behind her, his rifle held close to his chest. Gen had seen this boy before. He was the one who had held Roxane Coss’s hand when they were first on the floor. Why did he remember it was this one when all the others blurred together? It was something about his face, which was delicate, intelligent somehow, and it set him apart. Gen felt uncomfortable for having noticed this at all. Then the boy raised his eyes from the floor and saw Gen looking. They stared at one another for an instant and then both just as quickly looked away. There was a strange sensation low in Gen’s stomach. It made it easier to speak to Roxane Coss. She did not frighten him the way this boy did.

“Forgive me,” he said to the opera singer. He shook the boy from his mind. Never in a lifetime would Gen have come to her on his own. Never would he find the courage to express his own sympathies and remorse, in the same way that Mr. Hosokawa would not have the courage to speak to her even if his English had been perfect. But together they moved through the world quite easily, two small halves of courage making a brave whole.

“Gen,” she said. She smiled sadly, her eyes still red and damp. She reached up from the couch and took his hand. Of all the people in the room, his was the only name she was sure of and it gave her comfort to say it aloud. “Gen, thank you for before, for stopping them.”

“I didn’t stop anyone.” He shook his head. He was surprised to hear his name come out of her mouth. Surprised by the way it sounded. Surprised by the touch of her hand.

“Well, it would have all been pretty meaningless if you hadn’t been there to tell them what I was saying. I would have been just another woman screaming.”

“You made things very clear.”

“To think they wanted to shoot him.” She let go of his hand.

“I am glad,” Gen said, but then he stopped, trying to think of what there was to be glad about. “I am glad that your friend had some peace. I’m sure they will send him home soon.”

“Yes,” she said.

Gen and Roxane each imagined the accompanist going home, as in sitting up in a seat by the window of a plane, looking out at the clouds that pooled over the host country.

“My employer, Mr. Hosokawa, asks me to offer you his condolences. He wanted me to tell you that your accompanist was very talented. We were honored to hear him play.”

She nodded. “He’s right, you know,” she said. “Christopf was very good. I don’t suppose people notice the accompanist very often. That’s kind of him to say. Your employer.” She raised up her open hand to Gen. “He gave me his handkerchief.” It was a small white flag crushed into her palm. “I’m afraid I’ve ruined it. I don’t think he’d want it back now.”

“Of course he would want you to have it.”

“Say his name again for me.”

“Ho-so-kawa.”

“Hosokawa,” she said, nodding. “It was his birthday.”

“Yes. He is feeling very sorry about that as well. He has a great sense of responsibility.”

“That it was his birthday?”

“That you and your friend came here to perform for him. He feels that you are trapped here because of him, that perhaps your friend—” Again Gen stopped. There was no point in being so explicit. From this close, her face looked very young, very much like a girl’s, with her clear eyes and long hair. But he knew she was at least ten years older than he was, somewhere in her late thirties.