Ann Patchett: Bel Canto

By MARGIE THOMSON

You might expect a novel of a political hostage drama to be about conflict and division and hate. But Patchett has given us one about love and music and the triumph of shared humanity, a fabulous read (both in the sense of being wonderful, and of being almost magical) that has just won this year's Orange Prize.

In a story whose outline is similar to the 1997 takeover of the Japanese ambassador's house in Peru, in which 24 people were held for four months by leftist rebels, the home of the vice-president of an unnamed South American country is stormed by leftist guerrillas during a glittering gathering of local and international elites.

The terrorists' aim was to capture the country's president, but he was not present, having preferred to stay home and watch his favourite television programme.

As negotiations progress, many of the hostages are able to go home, leaving behind 57 men and one woman. And the months go by.

However, for hostages and captors alike, the experience is not as we might anticipate, largely because of the presence of that one woman, a beautiful American opera diva named Roxane Coss.

Coss captivates more effectively than the rough and ready, impoverished and under-educated rebels.

Her magical voice ensnares all who hear it, filling them with the most intense feelings of love and longing.

In short, she brings out the best in people. Even the large, sweaty Russian Secretary of Commerce, compelled to tell Coss of his love, finally does it with such delicacy and generosity that we see love at its best, as a gift without expectation.

Our heroes aren't brave action men or cunning strategists, but two quiet Japanese men, the businessman Katsumi Hosokawa, and his translator, Gen Watanabe.

Hosokawa has, Japanese-style, worked feverishly all his life, scarcely knowing his wife and daughters, and only ever relaxing for a few snatched moments when, plugged into his stereo, he indulged his passion for opera.

For years he has loved the voice of Coss, and has followed her concerts around the world.

It is at his behest that she was in this small, underdeveloped country, singing at this elite event (which was partly in honour of his 53rd birthday), so he feels responsible for her captivity, especially because his own motivation for the big event was not entirely honest.

Comfortingly, Coss tells him: "This is an event ripe for blame if ever there was one. I just don't blame you."

His relationship with Gen, 20 years his junior, is close. Together they moved through the world easily, two small halves of courage making a brave whole and only strengthened by their ordeal.

Patchett creates the most wonderful characters (there's not a single one I truly disliked) and she does it with great skill: the priest Father Arguedas who chooses to stay and tend his would-be flock and the vice-president, Ruben Iglesias, who finds he has a knack for housework and spends his days cleaning and asking people if they are comfortable.

While he pressed the shirts of shirtless men who stood waiting, he thought of the damage he could do. "With an iron, Ruben could go down fighting and the thought of it made him feel less passive, more like a man."

Like faith itself, we know these people through their deeds, not their words. In fact, in this cosmopolitan environment there are many people who cannot directly speak to each other.

Hosokawa and Coss, for instance, spend much time together, apparently in conversation, but in reality unable to speak a word of each other's language.

This situation keeps poor Gen busier than anyone else, keeping the gathering in touch with itself, and by the end of the book other people's words, often of the most personal kind, pour from his mouth in a multitude of languages, with him scarcely aware of what he is saying.

And yes, there are love affairs - doomed, passionate ones whose emotional tempo is superbly managed by Patchett.

Whether she's injecting sudden, shocking violence, time-stretching boredom or breathless passion, the pace seems always to have been chosen and executed carefully.

Yet for all the thrilling music and the humanity of much that occurs, we do not forget and neither do the players that their existence is predicated on threat.

We know these situations always end badly, and the rebels are as trapped as their prey.

Time marches inexorably on, and music is simply a diversion, a way of forgetting.

"It was the interpretation of their lives in the very moment they were being lived."

Poco Esperanza. Little Hope. We know that but, like the hostages and captors, we try and forget in order to intensify the enjoyment of the story.

Fourth Estate

$21.95