Kyung-ah jerked her head back slightly. She stared hard at him, but Charles didn’t notice.
Leah’s left hand fluttered up to touch her collarbone. She felt panic at being left alone with this man. Charles went to the piano. Another soprano in their geh, Deaconess Chun, came up to get Kyung-ah.
“Good night,” Kyung-ah said to her, slipping her arm into the crook of Deaconess Chun’s arm.
They were alone, and unconsciously, Leah paced around the small perimeter of space she’d allowed herself.
“You can sit down,” Charles said.
Leah tucked herself into the seat in the first row where Mrs. Noh, the choir secretary, sat. It made her feel safer to sit in her spot.
“This is where you’re having trouble. . .” He talked to her more kindly, as if she were one of his voice students. He sat up straight on his piano bench, inhaled deeply, then sang, “Hear my cry, hear my cry, save me Lord, in Thy mercy.” Without taking a pause to breathe, he sang the line again.
The words calmed her. His tenor voice was cool, like a cup of well water. For the first time that night, she felt the anxiety of the sinner’s plea—the sinner would understand in his heart that he is undeserving of God’s protection.
“Now, if you. . .” Charles turned his face from the sheet music. Leah was in tears, her face wrapped in her hands, and at that moment, he found her inexplicably beautiful. This wasn’t unusual to witness a soprano crying; both his singer wives wept at the slightest provocation. If he was late coming home, his second wife, crying out of control, would throw the dinner on the floor. His first wife cried when she saw the color periwinkle or smelled lavender. But Charles was surprised to see Leah cry. In the brief time he’d observed her, her stoicism was thoroughly marked in her manner, expression, clothing, and posture.
Charles swallowed. “Are you all right?” he asked. He smiled at her. “You don’t like the way I sing or play Gounod?” This was his first smile since he’d been in the practice room.
Leah didn’t understand his meaning.
“The composer, Charles Gounod,” he said in his respectable French accent. “He was going to be a priest, and he, too, was a choirmaster for over four years. I doubt I will last half that long.” He laughed.
“I’m so sorry.” Leah looked at him, sniffling. She was embarrassed by her emotions. She didn’t know what brought it on exactly.
Charles was right—Leah didn’t cry often, but somehow, when he’d sung just that verse, she had been impossibly moved. But this wasn’t something she could say. Throughout her life, many had praised her singing, appearing startled by the sound that came from her mouth, and in her lifetime, she too had heard a number of voices that had affected her deeply. Yet she herself was unable to put into words the sentiments racing through her heart. Sometimes she wished she could sing back to them. But that would have been insane. Life was not an opera. When she heard a voice like Charles’s or the one on the recording, what she wanted to say was, I can hear God when you sing.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t sing the solo. I sang last week, and it’s not fair to the others in the choir—”
Charles cocked his head. Singers did not turn down solos. This woman was ridiculous, her selflessness implausible.
“You must understand something: I’m not interested in fairness. And your God doesn’t seem interested in fairness when He gives out talent. I see mediocrity or ambition most of the time. You have talent, but no ambition. That’s why you’re stuck here.”
Leah furrowed her brow, not grasping his meaning.
“Mr. Jun has already explained to me his system of solo schedules. Everyone is pissed. I didn’t miss that today. I will figure out an alternative, but next Sunday is Easter—a big-deal holiday for Christians, as you and I know. And it should have the finest music, don’t you think? And your Mr. Jun is leaving. Shouldn’t we send him off with a nice song? For this Sunday, I expect you to sing because you’re the only voice I can bear right now.” He resented like hell the way singers needed stroking—their bottomless need for confirmation of their gifts. Was he begging a singer to do another solo? Impossible.
“But—”
“Do you object to the song?”
“No, no. It couldn’t be more beautiful. . . but, but—”
“Do you really care that your little soprano buddies are angry with you? The best is always shunned. Do you really care more about approval than about praising your God? Don’t you care at all about Mr. Jun’s last service? I saw you sobbing up there last Sunday when he announced the news.”