Bel Canto(50)

Roxane took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders. “Tell him,” she said to Gen, “that’s it. Either he gives me that box right now or you will not hear another note out of me or that piano for the duration of this failed social experiment.”

“Really?” Gen asked.

“I don’t bluff,” the soprano said.

So Gen related the message and all eyes turned to General Alfredo. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to push down the headache but it didn’t work. The music had confused him to the point of senselessness. He could not hold on to his convictions. Now he was thinking of his sister who had died of scarlet fever when he was just a boy. These hostages were like terrible children, always wanting more for themselves. They knew nothing of what it meant to suffer. He would have been glad to walk out of the house at that moment and take whatever fate was waiting for him on the other side of the wall, a lifetime in prison or a bullet in the head. With so little sleep he was in no condition to make decisions. Every possible conclusion seemed like madness. Alfredo turned and left the room, walking down the long hallway towards the Vice President’s study. After a time the faint voices of television news could be heard and General Benjamin told Messner to get inside and sharply instructed his soldiers to check thoroughly the contents of the box for anything that was not music. He tried to make it sound as if it was his decision, that he was the one in charge, but even he could see this was no longer true.

The soldiers took the box from Messner and emptied it out on the floor. There were loose scores and bound books, hundreds of pages covered in the alphabet of song. They sifted through them and separated them, shaking out handfuls as if there might be money caught between the pages.

“Amazing,” Messner said. “I watched the police tear through them outside and now we have to go through it all again.

Kato went and knelt down beside the boys. Once they had checked a piece of paper, Kato took it from them. He carefully separated Rossini from Verdi, put Chopin with Chopin. Sometimes he would stop and read a page as if it were a letter from home, his head swaying with the timed beat. When he found something of particular interest he would take it to Roxane and hand it to her, bowing from the waist. He did not ask for Gen to translate. Everything she needed to know was there.

“Manuel sends you his best regards,” Messner told Father Arguedas. “He said if there is anything else that is needed he will find it for you.”

The priest knew he committed the sin of pride and still he was overjoyed at having been able to play a role in bringing in the music. He was still too dizzy from the sound of Roxane’s voice to express himself properly. He looked to see if the windows were open. He hoped that Manuel had been able to hear a line, a note, from where he stood on the sidewalk. What a blessing he had received in his captivity. The mysteries of Christ’s love had never been closer to him, not when he said the mass or received communion, not even on the day he took holy orders. He realized now he was only just beginning to see the full extent to which it was his destiny to follow, to walk blindly into fates he could never understand. In fate there was reward, in turning over one’s heart to God there was a magnificence that lay beyond description. At the moment one is sure that all is lost, look at what is gained!

Roxane Coss did not sing again that day. Her voice had been asked to do enough. Now she contented herself to look through the scores, sitting on the small couch by the window with Mr. Hosokawa. When one of them had something to say they would call to Gen, but what was surprising was how rarely they needed him. He was a comfort to her. In the absence of language, she believed that he agreed with her completely. She would hum a little of the scores quietly so that he knew what she was looking at and then they would look at the pages together. Mr. Hosokawa could not read music but he accepted that. He did not speak the language of the libretto, the singer, or the host. He was beginning to feel more at ease with all he had lost, all he didn’t know. Instead, he was astonished by what he had: the chance to sit beside this woman in the late afternoon light while she read. Her hand brushed his as she set the pages down on the couch between them, and then her hand rested on top of his hand while she continued to read.

After a while Kato approached them. He bowed to Roxane and then bowed again to Mr. Hosokawa. “Do you think it would be all right if I played?” Kato asked his employer.

“I think it would be fine,” Mr. Hosokawa said.

“You don’t think it would disturb her reading?”

Roxane watched while Mr. Hosokawa pantomimed playing the piano and then nodded to Kato.

“Yes,” she said, nodding. She held out her hand for the music.

Kato handed it to her. “Satie,” he said.

“Satie.” She smiled and nodded again. Kato went to the piano and he played. It wasn’t like the last time he had played, when no one could believe that such a talent had been in the room among them without anyone knowing it. It was nothing like Roxane singing, where it seemed that everyone’s heart would have to wait until she had finished before it could beat again. The Satie was only music. They could hear its beauty without being paralyzed by it. The men were able to read their books or look out the window while Kato played. Roxane continued to leaf through the scores, though every now and then she stopped and closed her eyes. Only Mr. Hosokawa and the priest completely understood the importance of the music. Every note was distinct. It was the measurement of the time which had gotten away from them. It was the interpretation of their lives in the very moment they were being lived.