Bel Canto(45)

Enough, Messner said to himself.

“I’ve always had closed rehearsals,” Roxane said. “I don’t believe that anyone is entitled to hear my mistakes. But I doubt there would be much point in trying to arrange that here. I can hardly march them all up to the attic.”

“They could hear you in the attic.”

“I’d make them stuff cotton in their ears.” Roxane laughed at this and Messner was moved. Everything in the house seemed more tolerable since this new accompanist had stepped forward.

“So what can I do for you?” If Gen had been turned into a secretary, then Messner had become the errand boy. In Switzerland he was a member of an elite arbitration team. At forty-two he had had a very successful career with the Red Cross. He had not packed a box of food supplies or driven blankets to a flood sight in almost twenty years. Now he was scouring the city for orange-flavored chocolate and calling a friend in Paris to send an expensive eye cream that came in a small black tub.

“I need music,” she said, and handed over her list. “Call my manager and tell him to send this overnight. Tell him to fly it down himself if he thinks there could be any problem. I want this by tomorrow.”

“You might have to be a little more reasonable than tomorrow,” Messner said. “It’s already dark in Italy.”

Messner and Roxane spoke in English, with Gen discreetly translating their private conversation into Japanese. Father Arguedas sidled up to the piano, not wanting to interfere but wanting very much to know what was being said.

“Gen,” he whispered. “What does she need?”

“Sheet music,” Gen said, and then remembered the question had been asked in Spanish. “Partitura.”

“Does Messner know who to speak to? Does he know where to go?”

Gen liked the priest and didn’t mean to be annoyed but Mr. Hosokawa and Kato clearly meant to follow what was being said in Japanese and he was falling behind on the conversation taking place in English. “They’ll contact her people in Italy.” Gen turned his back on Father Arguedas and returned to the work at hand.

The priest tugged at Gen’s sleeve. Gen held up his hand to ask him to wait.

“But I know where the music is,” the priest persisted. “Not two miles from here. There is a man that I know, a music teacher, a deacon in our parish. He loans me records. He has all the music you would need.” His voice was becoming loud. Father Arguedas, who had devoted his life to doing good works, was nearly frantic for the want of some good works to do. He helped Ruben with the laundry and in the morning he folded all the blankets and stacked them with the pillows in neat rows against the wall, but he longed to provide assistance and guidance of a more profound nature. He couldn’t help but feel he stayed just on the edge of bothering people rather than comforting them, when all that he wanted, the only thing that mattered, was to be helpful.

“What is it he’s saying?” Roxane asked.

“What are you saying?” Gen asked the priest.

“The music is here. You could call. Manuel would bring it over, anything you need. If there was something he didn’t have, and I can’t imagine it, he would find it for you. All you need to say is that it is for Se?orita Coss. You wouldn’t even have to say that. He is a Christian man. If you tell him you need it for any reason, I promise he will help you.” Her eyes were dazzling in their agitation. His hands leapt in front of his chest as if he was trying to offer up his own heart.

“He would have Bellini?” Roxane asked after listening to the translation. “I need songs. I need to have entire opera scores, Rossini, Verdi, Mozart.” She leaned towards the priest and asked for the impossible straight on. “Offenbach.”

“Offenbach! Les Contes d’Hoffmann!” The priest’s pronunciation of the French was discernible if not good. He had only seen it written out on the record.

“He would have that?” she said to Gen.

Gen repeated the question and the priest replied, “I have seen his scores. Call him, the name is Manuel. I would be most grateful to place the call if I were allowed.”

Because General Benjamin was locked in a room upstairs holding a heating pad to his inflamed face and could not be disturbed, Messner made the request to the Generals Hector and Alfredo, who granted it with bored indifference.

“For Se?orita Coss,” Messner explained.

General Hector nodded and waved him away without looking. When Messner was almost out of the room, General Alfredo barked, “Only one call!” thinking they hadn’t shown proper authority by agreeing so quickly. They were in the den, watching the President’s favorite soap opera. The heroine, Maria, was telling her lover she did not love him anymore in hopes that he would leave town in desperation and thus be protected from his own brother, who, in his love for Maria, sought to murder him. Messner stood in the doorway for a moment to watch the girl on television cry. So completely convincing was her grief that it was difficult for him to turn away.

“Call Manuel,” he said, coming back to the living room. Ruben went to the kitchen and brought back the telephone directory and Messner gave the priest his cellular phone and showed him how to dial out.

On the third ring there was an answer. “Alo!”

“Manuel?” the priest said. “Manuel, hello?” He felt his voice choke with emotion. Someone outside the house! It was like seeing a ghost from his former life, a silvery shadow walking down the aisle towards the altar. Manuel. He had not been in captivity two full weeks but upon hearing that voice the priest felt as if he were dead to the world.