She bent to the instrument, closing her eyes slowly with the first broad sweep of the bow that was the awakening of the. woman and the dawning of the day the piece would sing about.
Technically it was a fairly undemanding piece, but the emotion it called for, to wring all that could be wrung from the music, made it difficult to perform without sounding either off-hand or pretentious. She wasn't sure herself why she'd chosen it; she'd practised it over the months since leaving Japan, and it sounded full and good in its solo form, but the same went for other pieces, and this was one she had never been convinced she had done justice to in the past. She ceased to wonder about it, and forgot about the lights and the man behind them, and the gun at Sucre's waist and the people trapped and trussed on the Nadia, and simply played, submerging herself in the silky depths of the music's hope and sorrow.
When it was over, and the last notes died, finally giving themselves up to the air, to the flesh of her fingertips and to the ancient wood of the instrument, she kept her eyes closed for a time, still in her deep red cave of heartache and loss. There were strange patterns behind her eyelids, swimming and pulsing to the strong beat of her blood. The music seemed to have set them into a theme of movement of its own, and they were only now unravelling into their natural semi-chaos. She watched them.
Clap clap clap. The sudden sound of applause shook her. She opened her eyes quickly. A glimpse of white hands clapping in the light, before they pulled back. The figure moved to one side, towards Sucre, and he started clapping too, matching the other man. Sucre nodded vigorously, glancing from her to the man in the seat beside him.
Clap clap. Clap. The applause subsided, stopped.
Hisako sat blinking in the light.
Sucre le ant towards the man. 'Beautiful, Sucre said, straightening.
'Thank you. She relaxed, let the bow tip touch the carpet. Would he want more?
Sucre bent again, then said, Señorita, please turn round; face the other way.
She stared. Then turned, awkwardly with the cello, shifting the seat, looked back at the door to the corridor outside.
Why? she thought. Surely not to shoot me? Do I play for him, then obediently perform this last gesture which will make the killing of me easier for them? Light flared behind her. She stiffened.
'OK, Sucre said easily. 'Turn back now.
She pivoted on the seat, taking the cello round in front of her. The red glowing end of a cigar glowed dimly behind the lights. A cloud of smoke drifted in front of the beams, further obscuring the view behind. She smelled sulphur.
'The jefe wants to know what you were thinking of when you play this piece, Sucre said.
She thought, conscious of her frown and of looking away from the lights into the darkness, seeking her answer there. 'I thought of… leaving. Of leaving Japan. Of leaving… she hesitated, then knew there was no point in pretending. 'I thought of leaving… the people on the ship; the Nadia. She had meant to say 'one person' or 'someone' on the ship, but something had deflected her even as she'd spoken, though she knew that Sucre already knew about Philippe. Even in these tiny, hopeless increments do we try to protect those we love, she thought, and looked up into the lights. 'I thought of leaving life; of this being my last chance to play. She drew herself up straight in the seat. 'That's what I thought of.
She heard the man behind the lights draw in his breath. Perhaps he nodded. Sucre drew up a seat and sat down by the other man. 'The jefe wants to know what you think of us. It was as though one of the lights was talking.
'Of the venceristas?
'Si.
She wondered what was the right thing to say. But they would know she'd try to say the right thing, so what was the point of it? She shrugged, looked down at the cello, fingered the strings. 'I don't know. I don't know everything that you stand for.
After a pause; 'Freedom for the people of Panama. Eventually, a greater Columbia. Cutting the puppet strings of the yanquis.
'Well, that might be good, she said, not looking up. Silence from the far end of the table. The coal of the cigar glowed brightly for a moment. 'I am not a politician, she said. 'I am a musician. Anyway, this is not my fight. I'm sorry. She looked up. 'We all just want to get out alive.
The cigar coal dipped towards Sucre. She heard a deep voice, smoky, as though it had taken on some of the character of the pungent blue fumes it passed through on its way to her. 'But the yanquis forced you to open up your country, yes? 1854; the American Navy made you trade. She sensed Sucre lean close to the other man again, heard the rumble of his voice once more. 'And then, less than a century later, they nuke you. The cigar coal was out to one side; she could just see it, under the glare of the left-hand light, and she could imagine the seated figure, arm on an arm of the chair. 'Huh'? Sucre said.
'That has all happened, she said. 'We… she struggled to find the words to describe a century and a half of the most radical change any country had ever undergone. 'We had strengths in our isolation, but it could not persist for ever. When we were… forced to change, we changed and found new strengths… or new expressions of the old ones. We tried too much; we tried to fit ourselves to the peoples outside; behave the way they did. We defeated China and Russia, and the world was amazed, and amazed too that we treated our prisoners so well… then we became… arrogant, perhaps, and thought we could take on America, and treat the… foreign devils as less than human. So we were treated the same way. It was wrong, but we were too. Since then we have flourished. We have sadnesses but, she sighed again, looking down at the strings, resting her fingers on them, imagining the chord she was producing, 'we can have few complaints. The lights still blazed. The cigar was centred again, and bright.
'You think the people on the other ship support us? Sucre said, after a pause.
'They want to live, she said. 'Maybe some want you to succeed, maybe some don't. They all want to live. That is stronger.
A noise that might have been a 'hmm'. Smoke billowed like a sail into the twin cones of light and flowed across the table in a slowly fluid tumble.
'Will you play in America? Sucre said.
'After Europe, I said I would think about it. I may. She wondered how much the man behind the lights was taking in. She wasn't choosing her words to make them easy.
'You play for the yanquis? Sucre said, sounding amused.
'I'd swear I wouldn't, if it would make any difference to you.
Definite amusement from the far end of the table. The rumbling voice again. 'We don't ask that, Señorita, Sucre said, laughing.
'What do you ask?
Sucre waited for the low voice, then said, 'We ask that you should play another — ?
The lights flickered and went out; some tone in the ship, never noticed because always there, altered, whined down. The lights came on dimly for a moment, then faded slowly, filaments passing through yellow to orange to red; the same colour as the cigar. They went out.
The emergency lights came on from the corners of the room, filling the mess with a flat neon glow.
She was looking at a man in olive fatigues; square shoulders, square face. For a second she thought he was bald, then saw he had blond hair, crew cut. His eyes were glittering blue. She saw Sucre stand quickly. There was noise from behind her, and the door opened. A voice behind her said, Jefe… then trailed off.
Frozen, the scene seemed cardboard and drained of colour; almost monochromatic. Sucre moved uncertainly towards her. The man holding the cigar raised it to thin lips under a thin blond moustache; the red glow brought colour to his face.