Bel Canto(71)

“It’s a lovely story,” Roxane said at last.

“But there is a point to it.”

Roxane settled back in her chair to hear the point.

“It may not seem immediately evident that I would be a man who has a deep understanding of art and I want you to know that I am. The Secretary of Commerce in Russia, what would that be to you? And yet because of my background I feel I am specifically qualified.”

Again, Roxane waited to see if there was more of the sentence coming and when there didn’t seem to be she asked him, “Qualified to what?”

“To love you,” Fyodorov said. “I love you.”

Gen looked at Fyodorov and blinked. He felt the blood drain away from his face.

“What did he say?” Roxane said.

“Go on,” Fyodorov said. “Tell her.”

Roxane’s hair was pulled up tightly from her face and caught in a pink elastic she had been given from the room of the Vice President’s oldest daughter. Without makeup or jewelry, without her hair to frame her face, a person might have thought her plain or even tired looking if he didn’t know what she was capable of. Gen thought she was patient to have listened for so long, keeping her eyes on Fyodorov, never drifting off to stare out the window. He thought it spoke well of her character that she had chosen Mr. Hosokawa to keep her company when other, lesser men were available, men who spoke English. Gen greatly admired her singing, that went without saying. Every day when she sang he felt deeply moved, but he did not love her. Not that he was being asked to. Not that she would have thought that’s what he meant, that he, Gen, loved her, and yet still he struggled. He had never thought of it before but he was quite sure now that he did think of it that he had neither spoken those words or written them, either to someone or for someone else. Birthday cards and letters home were signed please take good care of yourself. He had never said I love you to either his parents or his sisters. He had not said it to any of the three women he had slept with in his life or the girls in school with whom he had occasionally walked to class. It simply had not occurred to him to say it and now on the first day of his life when it might have been appropriate to speak of love to a woman, he would be declaring it for another man to another woman.

“Are you going to tell me?” Roxane said. There was only slightly more interest in her voice the second time she asked. Fyodorov waited, hands clasped, a look of great relief already spreading over his face. He had said his piece. He had taken things as far as he could.

Gen swallowed the saliva which had pooled over his tongue and tried to look at Roxane in a businesslike manner. “He is qualified to love you. He says, I love you.” Gen framed his translation to make it sound as appropriate as was possible.

“He loves my singing?”

“You,” Gen said pointedly. He did not feel the need to consult with Fyodorov on this. The Russian smiled.

Now Roxane did look away. She took a deep breath and stared out the window for a while as if there had been some sort of offer and she was now weighing it out. When she looked back she smiled at Fyodorov. The look on her face was so peaceful, so tender, that for a moment Gen thought perhaps she loved the Russian in return. Was it possible that such a declaration could achieve the desired effect? That she would love him simply for having loved her?

“Victor Fyodorov,” she said. “A wonderful story.”

“Thank you.” Fyodorov bowed his head.

“I wonder what became of the young man from Europe, Julian,” she said, though she seemed to be speaking to herself. “It’s one thing to give a woman a necklace. It comes in a small box. Even a very expensive necklace isn’t much trouble. But to give a woman such a book, to bring it all the way from some other country, I think that’s quite extraordinary. I can imagine him carrying it on the train all done up in wrapping paper.”

“If we are to believe there was a Julian at all.”

“There’s no reason not to. It certainly would do no harm to believe the story she told you.”

“I’m sure you are right. From now on I will remember it only as the truth.”

Gen’s head was filled with Carmen again. He wished that she was waiting for him, still sitting on the black marble sink, but he knew this wasn’t possible. She was probably on patrol now, walking up and down the hallways of the second floor with a rifle, conjugating verbs under her breath.

“As for the love,” Roxane said finally.

“There is nothing to say,” Fyodorov interrupted. “It is a gift. There. Something to give to you. If I had the necklace or a book of paintings I would give you that instead. I would give you that in addition to my love.”

“Then you are too generous with gifts.”

Fyodorov shrugged. “Perhaps you are right. In another setting it would be ridiculous, too grand. In another setting it would not happen because you are a famous woman and at best I would shake your famous hand for one second while you stepped into your car after a performance. But in this place I hear you sing every day. In this place I watch you eat your dinner, and what I feel in my heart is love. There is no point in not telling you that. These people who detain us so pleasantly may decide to shoot us after all. It is a possibility. And if that is the case, then why should I carry this love with me to the other world? Why not give to you what is yours?”

“And what if there is nothing for me to give you?” She seemed to be interested in Fyodorov’s argument.