But now Mr. Hosokawa pulled his chair up to the piano and listened. Everyone stayed in the living room, hostages and terrorists alike, in hopes that Kato might be persuaded to play again or, better still, that Roxane Coss might sing. Carmen seemed especially intent on watching Roxane. She considered herself to be Roxane’s bodyguard, her personal responsibility. She stood in the corner and stared at their party with unwavering concentration. Beatriz chewed on the end of her braid for a while, making talk with the boys her own age. When no music seemed to be immediately forthcoming, she and a few of her cohorts snuck off to watch television.
Only Mr. Hosokawa and Gen were invited to sit with the two principal players. “I like to sing scales first thing in the morning,” Roxane said. “After breakfast. I’ll work on some songs, Bellini, Tosti, Schubert. If you can play the Chopin, you can play those.” Roxane ran her fingers over the keys, placing her hands for the opening of Schubert’s “Die Forelle.”
“If we can get the music,” Kato said.
“If we can get dinner brought in we can get sheet music. I’ll have my manager put a box together and send it down. Someone can fly it down. Tell me what you want.” Roxane looked around for a piece of paper and Mr. Hosokawa was able to produce his notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. He opened it to a blank page towards the back and handed it to her.
“Ah, Mr. Hosokawa,” Roxane said. “Imprisonment would be something else altogether without you.”
“Surely you’ve been given nicer gifts than a pad of paper and a pen,” Mr. Hosokawa said.
“The quality of the gift depends on the sincerity of the giver. It also helps if the gift is something the receiver actually wants. So far you’ve given me your handkerchief, your notebook, and your pen. All three things I wanted.”
“The little I have here is yours,” he said with a sincerity that didn’t match her lightness. “You could have my shoes. My watch.”
“You have to save something for the future so you can surprise me.” Roxane tore off a sheet of paper and handed the notebook back. “Keep up with your studies. If we stay here long enough we’ll be able to cut Gen out of the loop.”
Gen translated and then added, “I’ll put myself out of business.”
“You can always go back to the jungle with them,” Roxane said, looking over her shoulder at the Generals, who spent their free time watching her. “They seem to want to give you a job.”
“I would never give him up,” Mr. Hosokawa said.
“Sometimes,” Roxane said, touching Mr. Hosokawa’s wrist for just a second, “these matters are out of our control.”
Mr. Hosokawa smiled at her. He was reeling with the naturalness of their discourse, the sudden ease with which they passed the time. Imagine if it hadn’t been Kato who played the piano! It could have been one of the Greeks or a Russian. Then he would have been locked out again, listening to English translated to Greek and Greek into English, knowing that Gen, his translator, would not have the time to then repeat every sentence in Japanese. Kato said he would like some Fauré if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, and Roxane laughed and said that nothing could be trouble at this point. Wonderful Kato! He scarcely seemed to notice her. It was the piano he couldn’t take his eyes off. He had always been a tireless worker and now he was the hero of the day. There would be a healthy raise when all of this was over.
Messner came in as usual at eleven in the morning. Two of the young soldiers patted him down at the door. They made him take off his shoes and they peered inside them, looking for tiny weapons. They patted his legs and frisked beneath his arms. It was a ridiculous habit that had grown not out of suspicion but out of boredom. The Generals struggled to keep their soldiers in the mind-set of battle. More and more the teenagers sprawled on the leather sofa in the Vice President’s den and watched television. They took long showers and trimmed each other’s hair with a pair of elegant silver scissors they found in the desk. And so the Generals doubled the night watch and guard duty. They made their soldiers patrol the house in pairs and sent two more outside to walk along the edge of the yard in the drizzling rain. When they went, they carried their rifles loaded and held them up as if they were looking to shoot a rabbit.
Messner submitted to this drill with patience. He opened his briefcase and slipped off his shoes. He held his arms out straight to either side and moved his sock feet wide apart so that the strange little hands could rummage around his body as they saw fit. Once, one of them tickled him on the ribs and Messner brought his arm down sharply. “？Basta!” he said. He had never seen such an unprofessional group of terrorists. It was a complete and utter mystery to him how they had ever managed to overtake the house.
General Benjamin swatted Ranato, the boy who had tickled Messner, and took his gun away from him. All he had hoped for was some semblance of military order. “There is no call for that,” he said sharply.
Messner sat down in a chair and retied his shoes. He was irritated with the whole lot of them. By now this trip should be forgotten, the snapshots developed, shared, and placed into an album. He should be back in his overpriced apartment in Geneva with the good view and the Danish Modern furniture he had so carefully collected. He should be taking a packet of mail from the cool hands of his secretary in the morning. Instead he went to work, inquiring how the group was doing. He had been practicing his Spanish, and even though he kept Gen close by, for a sense of security as much as a backup for his vocabulary, he was able to conduct much of the informal conversation on his own.
“We are growing tired of this,” the General said, and ran his hands back over his head. “We want to know why your people cannot find resolution. Must we start killing hostages to get your attention?”
“Well, first off, they are not my people.” Messner pulled the laces tight. “Nor is it my attention you should be trying for. Don’t kill anyone for my benefit. You have my complete attention. I should have gone home a week ago.”
“We all should have gone home a week ago,” General Benjamin sighed. “But we have to see our brothers released.” For General Benjamin, of course, this meant both his philosophical comrades and his literal brother, Luis. Luis, who had committed the crime of distributing flyers for a political protest and was now buried alive in a high-altitude prison. Before his brother’s arrest, Benjamin had not been a general at all. He had taught grade school. He had lived in the south of the country near the ocean. He had never had a moment’s trouble with his nerves.
“That is the issue,” Messner said, looking over the room, doing a quick tally of all present.
“And is there progress?”
“Nothing I’ve heard of today.” He reached into his case and took out a sheaf of papers. “I have these for you. Their demands. If there’s anything new you want me to request—”
“Se?orita Coss,” General Benjamin said, hitching his thumb in her direction. “There’s something she wants.”
“Ah, yes.”
“There is always something for Se?orita Coss,” the General said. “Kidnapping women is a different business entirely from the kidnapping of men. I hadn’t thought of it before. For our people, freedom. For her, something else, dresses possibly.”