Bel Canto(91)

But Gen didn’t translate. That was no longer his profession. Instead he asked, “For what purpose?” If there was to be an execution he would not be the one to lead these sheep out to be lined up against the wall. It wasn’t enough to translate what was said, you had to know the truth.

“What purpose?” General Benjamin said. He stepped towards Gen, so close that Gen could see red lines half the thickness of sewing threads webbing across his face. “I was told Roxane Coss requested to go outside.”

“And you’re letting everyone out?”

“You object to this?” General Benjamin was about to change his mind. What had he ever shown these people but decency and now they stared him down like a murderer? “You think I will take you outside and shoot the lot of you?”

“The guns—” Gen had made a mistake. He could see that.

“Protection,” the General said, his teeth clamped together.

Gen turned away from him and faced the people he thought of as his people. He watched their faces soften at the sound of his voice. “We are going outside,” Gen said in English, in Japanese, in Russian, Italian, French. “We are going outside,” he said in Spanish and Danish. Only four words but in every language he was able to convey that they would not be shot, this was not a trick. The group laughed and sighed and shook away from one another. The priest crossed himself quickly in gratitude for an answered prayer. Ishmael went and opened the door and hostages filed out into the light.

Glorious light.

Vice President Ruben Iglesias, who thought he would not live to feel once again the sensation of grass beneath his feet, stepped off the shale stone walkway and sank into the luxury of his own yard. He had stared at it every day from the living-room window but now that he was actually there it seemed like a new world. Had he ever walked around his own lawn in the evening? Had he made a mental note of the trees, the miraculous flowering bushes that grew up around the wall? What were they called? He dropped his face into the nest of deep purple blossoms and inhaled. Dear God, if he were to get out of this alive he would be attentive to his plants. Maybe he would work as a gardener. The new leaves were bright green and velvety to touch. He stroked them between his thumb and forefinger, careful not to bruise. Too many evenings he had come home after dark. He saw the life in his garden as a series of shadows and silhouettes. If there was ever such a thing as a second chance he would have his coffee outside in the morning. He would come home to have lunch with his wife in the afternoons on a blanket beneath the trees. His two girls would be in school, but he would hold his son on his knees and teach him the names of birds. How had he come to live in such a beautiful place? He walked through the grass towards the west side of the house and the grass was so heavy he knew it would be difficult to cut. He liked it that way. Maybe he would never have the grass mown again. If a man had a ten-foot wall then he could do whatever he wanted with his yard. He could make love to his wife late at night in the place where the wall made a pocket of lawn and three slender trees grew in a semicircle. They could come out after the children were in bed, after the servants were asleep, and who would see them? The earth they lie down on is as soft as their bed. He pictured her long dark hair undone and spread over the heavy grass. He would be a better husband in the future, a better father. He got on his knees and reached between the tall yellow lilies. He pulled up a weed that was as high as the flowers, its stem as thick as a finger, then another, and another. He filled his hands with green stems, roots and dirt. There was a great deal of work to be done.

The soldiers did not push the people or direct them in any way. They simply stood against the wall, spacing themselves apart at regular intervals. They leaned against the wall and took in the sun. It was good to do something different. It was good even to all be armed again, to be a line of soldiers holding guns. The hostages raised their arms above their heads and stretched. Some of them lay down in the grass, others examined the flowers. Gen was not looking at the plants, he was looking at the soldiers, and when he found Carmen she gave him a very small nod and pointed the tip of her rifle ever so slightly in the direction of Cesar’s tree. Everyone looked so glad to be out in the daylight. Carmen wanted to say, I did this for you. I’m the one who asked, but she kept perfectly quiet. She had to look away from Gen to keep from smiling.

Gen found Roxane with Mr. Hosokawa, walking hand in hand, as if this was some other garden and they were alone. They looked different this morning, not so improbable together, and Gen wondered if he looked different as well. He thought perhaps he shouldn’t bother them, but he had no idea how long they would be allowed to stay outside.

“I’ve located the boy,” Gen said.

“The boy?” Mr. Hosokawa said.

“The singer.”

“Oh, yes, the boy, of course.”

Gen said it again in English and together the three of them walked to a tree near the very back section of wall.

“He’s up there?” Roxane said, but she could barely concentrate, the breeze distracted her, the lush intertwining plants. She felt the sun curving over her cheeks. She wanted to touch the wall, she wanted to tangle her fingers up in the grass. She had never given a thought to grass before in her life.

“This is his tree.”

Roxane cocked her head back and sure enough she saw the bottom soles of two boots dangling in the branchs. She could make out his shirt, the underside of his chin. “Cesar?”