Bel Canto

by Ann Patchett

Another book about life in South America. Granted, this one's about people trapped in a hostage situation, but it manages to make even hostage life seem interesting. However, I will take out kidnapping insurance before any trip, just because this points out a vacation fate worse than a torn ACL. But it's a beautiful book, with beautiful language and engaging characters. Reminded me of Garcia Marquez and de Assis. Maybe it's all the little sidestories that make me like Southern and South American writings - they create a context for everything.

"'Why would he think I know how to cook?' she asked Gen.
Ruben, whose English was bad but not hopeless, pointed out that she was a woman. 'The two girls, I can't imagine they would know a thing except for native dishes that might not be to others' liking,' he said through Gen.
'This is some sort of Latin thing, don't you think?' she said to Gen. 'I can't even really be offended. It's important to bear the cultural differences in mind.' She gave Ruben a smile that was kind but relayed no information.
'I think that's wise,' Gen said, then he told Ruben, 'She doesn't cook.'
'She cooks a little,' Ruben said.
Gen shook his head. 'I would think not at all.'
'She wasn't born singing opera,' the Vice President said. 'She must have had a childhood.' Even his wife, who had grown up rich, who was a pampered girl with most available luxuries, was taught to cook.
'Possibly, but I imagine somoeone cooked her food for her.'
Roxane, now out of the conversational loop leaned back against the gold silk cushions of the sofa, held her hands up, and shrugged. It was a charming gesture. Such smooth hands that had never washed a dish or shelled a pea...
'I've heard Simaon Thibault complain a great deal about the food. He sounds like he knows what he's talking about. Anyway, he's French. The French know how to cook.'
'Two minutes ago I would have said the same thing about women,' Ruben said."

"Fyodorov shrugged. 'Perhaps you are right. In another setting it would be ridiculous, too grand. In another setting it would not happen because you are a famous woman and at best I would shake your famous hand for one second while you stepped into your car after a performance. But in this place I hear you sing every day. In this place I watch you eat your dinner, and what I feel in my hear is love. There is no point in not telling you that. These people who detain us so pleasantly may decide to shoot us after all. It is a possibility. And if that is the case, then why should I carry this love with me to the other world? Why not give to you what is yours?'

'And what if there is nothing for me to give you?' She seemed to be interested in Fyodorov's argument.

He shook his head. 'What a thing to say, after all that you have given to me. but it is never about who has given what. That is not the way to think of gifts. This is not business we are conducting. Would I be pleased if you were to say that you loved me as well? That what you wanted was to come to Russia and live with the [me], attend state dinners, drink your coffee in my bed? A beautiful thought, surely, but my wife would not be pleased. When you think of love you think as an American. You must think like a Russian. It is a more expansive view."