Bel Canto

From the beginning, the omniscient narrator signals to the reader that the events about to unfold have already taken place and the outcomes are already known. In this way, the problem of memory—its reliability and its tendency toward nostalgia—comes to the fore. For example, when recounting the events prior to the terrorist takeover, the narrator predicts that “every person in the living room would later remember a kiss” between Roxanne Coss and her accompanist (1). It is clear that the narrator is being facetious, however, illustrating a false and idealized view of the night. Not only does Roxanne resent her accompanist for making unwanted advances toward her, but it is also established shortly thereafter that a terrorist takeover will occur. As the narrator admits, “They did not see a kiss, that would have been impossible. The darkness that came on them was startling and complete” (1). These memories are fueled by the mistaken impression that the other hostages have of Roxanne’s relationship with her accompanist. The narrator also points out, a few pages later, that the terrorist takeover will eclipse the memories of what came before: “It had been a beautiful party, though no one would remember that” (9).

Part of the reason the party itself is so remarkable—though ultimately forgettable in the face of more significant events—is that the host country is trying to impress its multi-national group of guests. As the narrator notes, “struggling countries longing to impress the heads of important foreign corporations chose Russian caviar and French champagne” (9). While the party at the Vice President’s mansion did not include such luxuries, it did serve “[w]hite asparagus in hollandaise, a fish course of turbot [. . .], tiny chops, only three or four bites apiece” (9). In addition, “Every element was planned: crystal saltcellars, lemon mousse, American bourbon” (9). This reveals the anxiety of the host country to live up to the standards of their wealthier national counterparts, an eagerness to court investment, not to mention esteem. This geopolitical inequality echoes the socioeconomic disparity between the terrorists and the hostages. It foreshadows the need for these groups to eventually unite in the mansion and form Like Global Family: Cultural Attachments and Affiliations. It is clear that the terrorists—many of them from Indigenous groups—come from “poverty-stricken jungles” (50), while their hostages are, for the most part, the elite leaders of multinational corporations. Indeed, the terrorists’ “ultimate intention [was] to free the workers through revolution” (65)—this is why the staff is freed along with the women and children. In light of these disparities, the Indigenous peoples will have to practice Resonant Sounds: Political Voice and Agency of the Oppressed throughout the novel.

This discrepancy is also addressed in contrasting the absent President with the ultimately courageous Vice President. Ruben Iglesias originates from humble circumstances:

How many times had that story been told? Ruben Iglesias working his way up. The first in his family to finish high school! Worked as a janitor to put himself through college. Worked as a janitor and a judge’s clerk to put himself through law school (58).

The fact that he married into money is often elided, but Iglesias retains his working class allegiances. He notes that the President “had always excluded Ruben. [. . .] It was one thing to want a common man on your ticket, it was something else entirely to want him at your dinner table” (43). Ruben’s resentments over this are clear, as is his belief in himself: “He was a better man for the job than President Masuda” (67). His ability to maintain humility, along with his innate intelligence, has served him better than has the President’s privilege. His desire to be heard, and the system’s attempt to silence him, speaks to Resonant Sounds: Political Voice and Agency of the Oppressed.

This, too, is echoed in the incident with the nanny, Esmeralda. When the doctor refuses to reveal himself in his fear, Esmeralda steps forward to sew up the Vice President’s wound. She volunteers without fear and maintains a calm demeanor throughout the process. As the Vice President observes, “He knew that he would never again see such concentration and compassion focused on his face even if he were to survive this ordeal and live to be a hundred” (48). As befitting her role, “He was simply one more thing for Esmeralda to put together again, something else in need of repair” (48). The implication is that there is more cowardice than competence inherent in the privileged. In this way, Esmeralda exercises her voice non-verbally by stepping up and taking charge of the problem, demonstrating the power of Resonant Sounds and the many different ways one can find their political “voice.” She also forms a bond with the Vice President and impresses him with her actions, furthering the novel’s themes of global family and interconnectedness.

The other thematic concerns throughout the opening chapters are the power of music, especially opera, along with the potency of voice—both in the sense of singing and of agency (See Beautiful Singing: The Power of Female Music and Resonant Sounds: Political Voice and Agency of the Oppressed). The power of music is part of the reason why the hostages remember an imaginary kiss between Roxanne Coss and her accompanist: “Maybe music could be transferred, devoured, owned. What would it mean to kiss the lips that had held such a sound?” (1-2). In their jealousy, most of the men desire Roxanne and conjure the fantasy of the kiss. It also allows them to romanticize the accompanist, believing him to be her lover. Roxanne herself demonstrates not only her virtuoso’s talents but also her ability to take charge of a situation. When she protests the post-mortem shooting of her accompanist, she makes herself loom large, “as if from years of appearing far away on a stage she had learned how to project not just her voice but her entire person, and the rage that was in her lifted her up until she seemed to tower over them” (84). Needless to say, Roxanne has her way. She accomplishes this through a form of female agency that is creative and beautiful rather than destructive and violent and fueled by warfare; in her singing and her persona, which encapsulates singing, she embodies Beautiful Singing: The Power of Female Music.

In addition, there are the stories of the hostages themselves and their bonds: the special relationship between Gen Watanabe and his boss, Mr. Hosokawa; the love and growing longing between married couple Simon and Edith Thibault; the Vice President’s boyhood; Father Argueda’s love for, and fear of, music. Unusual bonds grow between the group almost immediately. The loss of the accompanist, for example, hits them hard, even though they do not even know his name: “The poor accompanist, their friend. He was one of them” (82). These close connections across cultural lines speak to the theme of Like Global Family: Cultural Attachments and Affiliations. Many of the hostages believe they will be killed, though Roxanne does not; she is given special treatment because of her celebrity (by the other hostages), because of her status (by the terrorists), and because of her ethereal voice (by everyone). There is also an odd quality to the dawning realization that this stalemate has only just begun, that there would be neither random executions nor compassionate release: “this was the house where they lived now, where they had been kidnapped” (103). The groups unite across cultural lines and form intimate bonds with each other, creating a kind of larger global family, a utopia. Much of this unity gravitates around Roxanne and her power, a creative and beneficial power that speaks to Beautiful Singing: The Power of Female Music. The bonds give way to a rise in heard voices, too, as those like Carmen are helped to speak by the groups’ connections, demonstrating Resonant Sounds: Political Voice and Agency of the Oppressed. The connections unite but also offer a platform for greater agency among the oppressed.