whose party this had been, and she certainly didn’t know him, but he had been helpful with her accompanist,
and for that she searched him out and smiled at him. The men shifted from foot
to foot in their pack, all of them sad-eyed and nervous from the far side of
the room. Mr. Hosokawa returned her smile, a small, dignified acknowledgment,
and bowed his head. With the exception of Mr. Hosokawa, the men were not thinking
about Roxane Coss then. They had forgotten her and the dizzying heights of her
arias. They were watching their wives file out into the bright afternoon,
knowing it was a probability that they would never see them again. The love
they felt rose up into their throats and blocked the air. There went Edith
Thibault, the Vice President’s wife, the beautiful Esmeralda.
Roxane Coss was very nearly at the door,
perhaps half a dozen women away, when General Hector stepped forward and took
her arm. It was not a particularly aggressive gesture. He might have only been
trying to escort her someplace, perhaps he had wanted
her at the front of the line. “Espera,” he said, and
pointed over to the wall, where she should stand alone near a large Matisse
painting of pears and peaches in a bowl. It was one of only two works by
Matisse in the entire country and it had been borrowed from the art museum for
the party. Roxane, confused, looked at that moment to the translator.
“Wait,” Gen said softly in English, trying to make
the one word sound as benign as possible. Wait, after all, did not mean that she would never go, only that her leaving would be
delayed.
She took the word in, thought about it for a
moment. She still doubted that’s what he had meant even when she heard it in
English. As a child she had waited. She had waited at school in line for
auditions. But the truth was that in the last several years no one had asked
her to wait at all. People waited for her. She did not wait. And all of this,
the birthday party, the ridiculous country, the guns, the danger, the waiting involved in all of it was a mockery. She pulled
her arm back sharply and the jolt caused the General’s glasses to slip from his
nose. “Look,” she said to General Hector, no longer willing to tolerate his
hand on her skin. “Enough is enough.” Gen opened his mouth to translate and
then thought better of it. Besides, she was still speaking. “I came here to do
a job, to sing for a party, and I did that. I was told to sleep on the floor
with all of these people you have some reason to keep, and I did that, too. But
now it’s over.” She pointed towards the chair where her accompanist sat hunched
over. “He’s sick. I have to be with him,” she said, though it came off as the
least convincing of her arguments. Slumped forward in his chair, his arms
hanging from his sides like flags on an especially windless day, the
accompanist looked more dead than sick. He did not raise his head when she
spoke. The line had stopped moving, even the women who were free to go now stopped
to watch her, regardless of whether or not they had any idea of what she was
saying. It was in this moment of uncertainty, the inevitable pause that comes
before the translation, that Roxane Coss saw the
moment of her exit. She made a clean move towards the front door, which was
open, waiting. General Hector reached up to catch her and, missing her arm,
took her firmly by the hair. Such hair made a woman an easy target. It was like
being attached to several long soft ropes.
Three things happened in close succession:
first, Roxane Coss, lyric soprano, made a clear, high-pitched sound that came
from what appeared to be some combination of surprise and actual pain as the
tug caused her neck to snap backwards; second, every guest invited to the party
(with the exception of her accompanist) stepped forward, making it clear that
this was the moment for insurrection; third, every terrorist, ranging from the
ages of fourteen to forty-one, cocked the weapon he had been
and for that she searched him out and smiled at him. The men shifted from foot
to foot in their pack, all of them sad-eyed and nervous from the far side of
the room. Mr. Hosokawa returned her smile, a small, dignified acknowledgment,
and bowed his head. With the exception of Mr. Hosokawa, the men were not thinking
about Roxane Coss then. They had forgotten her and the dizzying heights of her
arias. They were watching their wives file out into the bright afternoon,
knowing it was a probability that they would never see them again. The love
they felt rose up into their throats and blocked the air. There went Edith
Thibault, the Vice President’s wife, the beautiful Esmeralda.
Roxane Coss was very nearly at the door,
perhaps half a dozen women away, when General Hector stepped forward and took
her arm. It was not a particularly aggressive gesture. He might have only been
trying to escort her someplace, perhaps he had wanted
her at the front of the line. “Espera,” he said, and
pointed over to the wall, where she should stand alone near a large Matisse
painting of pears and peaches in a bowl. It was one of only two works by
Matisse in the entire country and it had been borrowed from the art museum for
the party. Roxane, confused, looked at that moment to the translator.
“Wait,” Gen said softly in English, trying to make
the one word sound as benign as possible. Wait, after all, did not mean that she would never go, only that her leaving would be
delayed.
She took the word in, thought about it for a
moment. She still doubted that’s what he had meant even when she heard it in
English. As a child she had waited. She had waited at school in line for
auditions. But the truth was that in the last several years no one had asked
her to wait at all. People waited for her. She did not wait. And all of this,
the birthday party, the ridiculous country, the guns, the danger, the waiting involved in all of it was a mockery. She pulled
her arm back sharply and the jolt caused the General’s glasses to slip from his
nose. “Look,” she said to General Hector, no longer willing to tolerate his
hand on her skin. “Enough is enough.” Gen opened his mouth to translate and
then thought better of it. Besides, she was still speaking. “I came here to do
a job, to sing for a party, and I did that. I was told to sleep on the floor
with all of these people you have some reason to keep, and I did that, too. But
now it’s over.” She pointed towards the chair where her accompanist sat hunched
over. “He’s sick. I have to be with him,” she said, though it came off as the
least convincing of her arguments. Slumped forward in his chair, his arms
hanging from his sides like flags on an especially windless day, the
accompanist looked more dead than sick. He did not raise his head when she
spoke. The line had stopped moving, even the women who were free to go now stopped
to watch her, regardless of whether or not they had any idea of what she was
saying. It was in this moment of uncertainty, the inevitable pause that comes
before the translation, that Roxane Coss saw the
moment of her exit. She made a clean move towards the front door, which was
open, waiting. General Hector reached up to catch her and, missing her arm,
took her firmly by the hair. Such hair made a woman an easy target. It was like
being attached to several long soft ropes.
Three things happened in close succession:
first, Roxane Coss, lyric soprano, made a clear, high-pitched sound that came
from what appeared to be some combination of surprise and actual pain as the
tug caused her neck to snap backwards; second, every guest invited to the party
(with the exception of her accompanist) stepped forward, making it clear that
this was the moment for insurrection; third, every terrorist, ranging from the
ages of fourteen to forty-one, cocked the weapon he had been
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