Bel Canto(96)

Gen rolled onto his back, stretched like a cat, and then folded his arms beneath his head. “And then we’ll talk the trees into growing blue feathers. Haven’t you paid attention at all, Messner? They aren’t going to be talked into anything. Especially not by the likes of us.”

The likes of us. Messner wondered if Gen was implying that he had not done his job well enough. Four and a half months living in a hotel room half the world away from Geneva when all he had come here for in the first place was a holiday. Both parties were intractable and what the party inside this wall didn’t understand was that the government was always intractable, no matter what the country, what the circumstances. The government did not give in, and when they said they were giving in they were lying, every time, you could count on it. As Messner saw it, it was his job not to hammer out a compromise but merely to steer them clear of a tragedy. There wasn’t much time left for this work. Despite the rhythmic thud of the runners and the boys playing soccer, he could definitely feel something happening in the ground.

The sign of the Red Cross, like the very sign of Switzerland, stood for peaceful neutrality. Messner had stopped wearing his armband a long time ago but he didn’t believe in it any less. Members of the Red Cross brought food and medicine, sometimes they would ferry papers for arbitration, but they were not moles. They did not spy. Joachim Messner would have no more told the terrorists what the military had planned than he would tell the military what was happening on the other side of the wall.

“Get up,” he said again.

Sluggishly, Gen sat up and raised an arm to Messner to be pulled to his feet. Was this a picnic? Had they been drinking so early? No one seemed to be suffering in the least. In fact they all looked pink-cheeked and energetic. “The Generals are probably still over at the playing field,” Gen said. “They might be in the game.”

“You have to help me,” Messner said.

Gen pushed his hair back into some semblance of order with his fingers and then, finally awake, threw his arm across his friend’s shoulder. “When have I not helped you?”

The Generals were not playing ball but they were sitting at the edge of the field in three wrought-iron chairs pulled over from the patio. General Alfredo was shouting instructions at the players, General Hector was watching with intent silence, and General Benjamin had his face tilted up to make an even plane for the sun. All three had their feet buried in the high grass.

Gilbert kicked a beautiful shot and Gen waited until the play was over to announce their guest. “Sir,” he said, meaning whoever looked up. “Messner is here.”

“Another day,” General Hector said. The second arm of his glasses had broken off that morning and now he held them up to his face like a pince-nez.

“I need to speak to you,” Messner said. If his voice had taken on some new urgency none of them heard it over the whooping and shouting of the boys in the game.

“Permission to speak,” General Hector said. General Alfredo hadn’t taken his eyes off the game and General Benjamin hadn’t opened his eyes at all.

“I need to speak to you inside. We need to talk about negotiations.”

Then General Alfredo turned his head in Messner’s direction. “They are ready to negotiate?”

“Your negotiations.”

General Hector waved his hand at Messner as if he had never been so bored in all his life. “You’re taking up our time.” He turned his attention back to the game and called out, “Francisco! The ball!”

“Listen to me with seriousness,” Messner said quietly in French. “One time. I have done a great deal for you. I have brought in your food, your cigarettes. I have carried your messages. I am asking that you sit down with me now and talk.” Even in the bright sun Messner’s face was drained of color. Gen looked at him and then he translated the message, trying to keep Messner’s tone of voice. The two of them stood there but the Generals did not look up again. Usually this was Messner’s sign to go but he stood there with his arms folded across his chest and waited.

“Enough?” Gen whispered in English, but Messner didn’t look at him. They waited for more than half an hour.

Finally, General Benjamin opened his eyes. “All right,” he said, his voice as tired as Messner’s. “We’ll go to my office.”

Cesar, who had been so fearless when he sang from Tosca in front of the full house, really did prefer to practice in the afternoons when everyone else was outside, especially since practicing so often meant scales, which he found degrading. And he and Roxane Coss were never alone, there was no such thing as alone. Kato was there to play the piano and Mr. Hosokawa was there because he was always there. Today, Ishmael, who was regularly humiliated in soccer, had set up the chess set on a low table near the piano and played with Mr. Hosokawa. He and Cesar both had guns because if they both chose to stay in the house then they were the default house guards. If Cesar complained about other people staying to listen and if there was someone there to translate from Spanish to English and back into Spanish again (and several people could do this), Roxane Coss would tell him that singing was intended to be heard by other people and he might as well get used to it. He wanted to learn songs, arias, entire operas, but mostly she made him sing scales and nonsense lines. She made him roar and pucker his lips and hold his breath until he had to sit down quickly and put his head between his knees. He would have invited everyone in if she had let him sing a song with the piano, but that, she said, was something to be earned.