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When
the lights went off the accompanist kissed her. Maybe he had been
turning towards her just before it was completely dark, maybe he
was lifting his hands. There must have been some movement, a
gesture, because every person in the living room would later
remember a kiss. They did not see a kiss, that would have
been impossible. The darkness that came on them was startling and
complete. Not only was everyone there certain of a kiss, they
claimed they could identify the type of kiss: it was strong and
passionate, and it took her by surprise. They were all looking
right at her when the lights went out. They were still applauding,
each on his or her feet, still in the fullest throes of hands
slapping together, elbows up. Not one person had come anywhere
close to tiring. The Italians and the French were yelling,
"Brava! Brava!" and the Japanese turned away from them.
Would he have kissed her like that had the room been lit? Was his
mind so full of her that in the very instant of darkness he reached
for her, did he think so quickly? Or was it that they wanted her
too, all of the men and women in the room, and so they imagined it
collectively. They were so taken by the beauty of her voice that
they wanted to cover her mouth with their mouth, drink in. Maybe
music could be transferred, devoured, owned. What would it mean to
kiss the lips that had held such a sound?Some
of them had loved her for years. They had every recording she had
ever made. They kept a notebook and wrote down every place they had
seen her, listing the music, the names of the cast, the conductor.
There were others there that night who had not heard her name, who
would have said, if asked, that opera was a collection of
nonsensical cat screechings, that they would much rather pass three
hours in a dentist's chair. These were the ones who wept openly
now, the ones who had been so mistaken.No
one was frightened of the darkness. They barely noticed. They kept
applauding. The people who lived in other countries assumed that
things like this must happen here all the time. Lights go on, go
off. People from the host country knew it to be true. Besides, the
timing of the electrical failure seemed dramatic and perfectly
correct, as if the lights had said, You have no need for sight.
Listen. What no one stopped to think about was why the candles
on every table went out as well, perhaps at that very moment or the
moment before. The room was filled with the pleasant smell of
candles just snuffed, a smoke that was sweet and wholly
unthreatening. A smell that meant it was late now, time to go to
bed.They
continued the applause. They assumed she continued her
kiss.Roxane Coss, lyric soprano, was the only reason Mr. Hosokawa
had come to this country. Mr. Hosokawa was the reason everyone else
had come to the party. It was not the kind of place one was likely
to visit. The reason the host country (a poor country) was throwing
a birthday party of unreasonable expense for a foreigner who had to
be all but bribed into attending was that this foreigner was the
founder and chairman of Nansei, the largest electronics corporation
in Japan. It was the fondest wish of the host country that Mr.
Hosokawa would smile on them, help them in some of the hundred
different ways they needed helping. That could be achieved through
training or trade. A factory (and this was the dream so dear its
name could hardly be spoken) could be built here, where cheap labor
could mean a profit for everyone involved. Industry could move the
economy away from the farming of coca leaves and blackhearted
poppies, creating the illusion of a country moving away from the
base matter of cocaine and heroin, so as to promote foreign aid and
make trafficking of those very drugs less conspicuous. But the plan
had never taken root in the past, as the Japanese, by nature, erred
on the side of caution. They believed in the danger and the rumors
of danger countries such as this presented, so to have Mr. Hosokawa
himself, not an executive vice president, not a politician, come
and sit at the table was proof that a hand might be extended. And
maybe that hand would have to be coaxed and begged. Maybe it would
have to be pulled from its own deep pocket. But this visit, with
its glorious birthday dinner replete with opera star, with several
meetings planned and trips to possible factory sites tomorrow, was
a full world closer than they had ever come before and the air in
the room was sugared with promise. Representatives from more than a
dozen countries who had been misled as to the nature of Mr.
Hosokawa's intentions were present at the party, investors and
ambassadors who might not encourage their governments to put a dime
into the host country but would certainly support Nansei's every
endeavor, now circled the room in black tie and evening gown,
making toasts and laughing.As
far as Mr. Hosokawa was concerned, his trip was not for the
purposes of business, diplomacy, or a friendship with the
President, as later would be reported. Mr. Hosokawa disliked travel
and did not know the President. He had made his intentions, or lack
of intentions, abundantly clear. He did not plan to build a plant.
He would never have agreed to a trip to a strange country to
celebrate his birthday with people he did not know. He was not much
for celebrating his birthday with people he did know, and certainly
not his fifty-third, which he considered to be a number entirely
without note. He had turned down half a dozen strong requests
from...Excerpted from BEL CANTO © Copyright 2001 by Ann Patchett.
Reprinted with permission by HarperCollins. All rights
reserved.