Bel Canto(74)

Some things were against the rules, rules that were memorized and repeated in drills. Some rules (speaking respectfully to a superior officer) stood firm. Other rules (never speaking to a hostage unless it was to correct him) weakened and fell away. What the Generals would and would not allow was not always clear. Silently, Ishmael memorized the chessboard. He didn’t know the names of the pieces because no one in the room ever spoke. He practiced in his head the most appropriate way of broaching the subject. He considered asking Gen to ask for him. Gen had a way of making things seem especially important. Or he could ask Gen to ask Messner, who was the man who handled the negotiations. But Gen seemed very busy these days and Messner, frankly, didn’t seem to be doing such a great job considering that they were all still there. He wished most of all he could ask the Vice President, the man whom he held in the greatest esteem and thought of as his friend, but the Generals made a special point of ridiculing Ruben, and anything he asked for would certainly be denied.

So if Ishmael wanted something, the only logical person to turn to was himself, and after waiting a few more days he found the courage to make the question. One day was just the same as the next and so he reasoned there would never be exactly a right time or a wrong time to ask. General Benjamin had just completed his move and Mr. Hosokawa was only in the earliest stages of considering his next position. Roxane sat forward on the little sofa, her elbows on her knees, her hands making a comfortable support beneath her chin. She watched the board like something that might try and run away. Ishmael wished he could speak to her. He wondered if she was learning how to play as well.

“Sir,” Ishmael began, a sharp chip of ice lodged in his throat.

General Benjamin looked up and blinked. He hadn’t noticed the boy in the room. Such a small boy. He was an orphan whose uncle had enlisted him to the cause only a few months before their attack, saying all the boys in the family were small and then came into impressive growth spurts, but Benjamin was beginning to doubt this would ever be true. Ishmael didn’t look like a body that was planning on doing anything impressive. Still, he did the best he could to keep up with the others and endure their teasing. And it was helpful to have at least one person who was small, someone who could be hoisted up, pushed through windows. “What is it?”

“I was wondering, sir, if you would consider.” He stopped, collected himself, and started again. “I was wondering if there was time later, if I might play the winner.” It occurred to him then that there was a fifty-fifty chance that the winner might be Mr. Hosokawa, which might be an inappropriate request. “Or the loser.”

“You play chess?” General Benjamin asked.

Mr. Hosokawa and Roxane kept their eyes on the board. There was a time, out of politeness, when they would have at least looked at the person who was speaking, even if they couldn’t understand a word of what was being said. Now they both knew a little Spanish and they didn’t bother to look up. Mr. Hosokawa was angling for the General’s bishop. Roxane could see what he was thinking.

“I guess I do. I’ve been watching. I think I understand it now.”

General Benjamin laughed, but it wasn’t such an unkind laugh. He tapped Mr. Hosokawa on the arm. Mr. Hosokawa looked up, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and watched while General Benjamin took one of Ishmael’s small hands beneath his own and put it on a pawn, then he hopped the pawn from place to place on the board. He motioned between the three of them and that was clear enough. Mr. Hosokawa smiled and clapped the boy on the shoulder.

“So you will play the winner,” General Benjamin said. “Everything is agreed.”

Ishmael, feeling a great rush of luck, took up a place at Roxane’s feet and stared at the board the way she did, like it was a living thing. He only had half a game left to learn everything there was to know about chess.

Gen rapped lightly on the frame of the door to the study. Messner stood behind him. Everything about Messner’s countenance seemed weary except for his hair, which was as bright as daylight. He still wore a white shirt, black pants, and a black tie, and, like the hostages and terrorists alike, his clothes showed signs of wear. He folded his arms and watched the game. He had been on the chess team in college, rode the bus to play against the French, the Italians. He would have liked to play now, but had he stayed in the house for three hours he would have been expected to have something significant to show for it when he came outside.

General Benjamin held up his hand without looking. He was beginning to sense that his bishop was in peril.

Messner watched the direction of his eyes. He considered telling the General that the bishop wasn’t really his problem, but God knows Benjamin never would have listened to him. “Tell him I’ve brought today’s papers,” he said to Gen in French. He could have said that much in Spanish but he knew the General would only have glared at him, speaking in the middle of the move.

“I’ll tell him.”

Roxane Coss lifted one hand and waved to Messner but kept her eyes on the board, as did Ishmael, who felt the creeping bile of fear churning in his esophagus. Maybe he didn’t know how to play chess after all.

“Are you planning on springing us anytime soon?” Roxane asked.

“No one moves,” Messner said, trying to be light. “I’ve never seen such a stalemate.” He felt oddly jealous of Ishmael, sitting right there by her feet. He would only have to slide his hand two inches to brush against her ankle.