Ann Patchett by Bel Canto

eyes
cast down. “I will stay.”
    And with that the matter was closed. Monsignor
Rolland could do nothing but helplessly watch the whole thing. He was already
standing with the women and the shame of it filled him with murderous rage. He
could have choked the young priest to death with one hand, but it was too late.
He had already been saved.
    The Vice President should have been given
medical leave but didn’t even bother asking. Instead, sick with fever and
holding a melted ice pack to his face, he was told to go out the door and down
to the heavy gate in the wall to announce the release to the press. He barely
had a second with his own wife, a decent woman who made the work of her life
the well-being of his career and never said a word as she watched him throw her
work away. He didn’t have a minute with his two daughters, Imelda and Rosa, who
had been so good, lying all day on their sides playing some complicated finger
game with each other that he could not recognize. He said nothing to Esmeralda
because there were no words to thank her. He was worried about her. If he was
killed, would they keep her on? He hoped so. She had such a lovely straight
back and was patient with the children. She had taught them to paint pictures
of animals on small rocks and from those rocks elaborate worlds were made. There
were plenty of them upstairs. Sooner or later he would be able to get away and
go and find them. His wife clutched at their son until he cried out from the
pressure of her hands. She was afraid they would try and take him to the side
with the men, but Ruben stroked her fingers and reassured her. “No one will
count him,” he said. He kissed Marco on the head, kissed his silky, deeply
boyish-smelling hair. Then he went to the door.
    He was a better man for the job than President
Masuda. The President couldn’t say anything unless it was written down. He was
not a stupid man, but he lacked spontaneity. Besides, he had a temper and false
pride and would not stand being ordered from the floor to the door and back
again. He would say something unscripted and get himself shot, which would
eventually lead to everyone getting shot. For the first time he thought it was
better that Masuda had stayed home to watch his soap opera because Ruben could
be the servant, the straight man, and in doing so he could save the lives of
his wife and his children and their pretty governess and the famous Roxane
Coss. The particular job he had been given this time was in fact more suited to
the talents of a Vice President. Messner came out and joined him on the front
steps. The day had clouded over but the air was marvelous. The people at the
end of the walkway lowered their guns and out came the women, their dresses
shimmering in the late afternoon light. Were it not for all the police and
photographers, a person walking by might have thought it was a party where
every couple had fought and the women all took it upon themselves to leave
early and alone. They were crying, and their hair fell into tangled knots. Their
makeup was ruined and their skirts were held up in their fists. Most of them
carried their shoes or had left their shoes behind and their stockings were
torn on the flat shale stones of the front walk, though none of them noticed. There
should have been a sinking ship behind them, a burning building. The farther
they got from the house the harder they cried. The few men, the servants, the
infirm, came out behind them, looking helpless in the face of so much sadness
for which they were not responsible.
    three
    a clarification: all of the women were released except one. She was somewhere
in the middle of the line. Like the other women, she was looking back into the
living room rather than out the open door, looking back to the floor on which
she’d slept like it hadn’t been a night but several years. She was looking back
at the men who wouldn’t be coming outside, none of whom she actually knew. Except
the Japanese gentleman