Free My Tango With Barbara Strozzi by Russell Hoban Page B

South African male answered.
    ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘this is Phil Ockerman. Is Constanze available?’
    ‘Hang on,’ he said, and put the phone down to shout, ‘ ’Stanze! It’s for you.’
    Constanze appeared presently. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Who’s this?’
    ‘Phil Ockerman.’
    ‘Oh,
Hope of a Tree
.’
    ‘Actually, it’s hope of seeing you before you leave for Cape Town. Is that possible?’
    ‘I’m kind of pressed for time. What did you want to see me about?’
    ‘I wanted to hear more about your music.’
    ‘Oh. What for?’
    ‘I’m a writer – I get interested in all kinds of things.’
    ‘Ah, professional interest.’
    ‘That, but mainly I just want to see more of you – I’m being true to my craziness.’
    ‘That’s all very well, Phil, but it takes two to tango.’
    ‘It also takes two to have a conversation and a coffee but never mind. I’ll see you around. Or not.’ I rang off.
    ‘I’m embarrassed for you,’ I said to myself.
    ‘Twenty-five-year olds!’ I replied. ‘What do you expect?’
    The phone rang. ‘Hello,’ I said.
    ‘It’s me, Constanze. I don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow until late afternoon. Can you meet me at Putney Bridge tube station at eleven?’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘See you then.’
    I listened to Barbara Strozzi for a while before going to sleep and dreaming of a foreign city with very wide streets and cold northern sunlight.
    The next morning was sunny and mild. Constanze was right on time. ‘I’ve brought some music with me,’ she said. ‘Let’s sit by the river while you listen.’ We went into Bishop’s Park, and from a bench near the bridge watched an eight stroking past towards Barnes, bright droplets falling from the oars on each return and the coxswain’s voice coming to us small and urgent over the water.
    Constanze handed me her little CD player and headphones. ‘Here’s a working recording of one of my songs called “Blue Mountains”.’
    I started the disc. Over the sound of instruments tuning up Constanze’s voice said, ‘“Used-To-Be” take three.’ After a short silence there was the wavering melody of a flute, then a violin and a cello came in over a quietly pulsing drumbeat. I imagined a distant escarpment under a wide sky. The flute faded out and the strings and drums continued under a woman’s voice speaking low and breathily, as in the intimacy of the small hours. A naked voice making itself heard in the darkness. At first I thought it was a black woman, then I recognised the voice as Constanze’s:
    Kopelo, kopelo e e iketlileng mo tsebeng ya moja
Ee, kopelo ee ritibetseng e le runi
Jaaka phala ya selemo se se fetileny mo tsebeng yame
Sona Sepoko, ke go raa ke go raa
Ke tlaabo ke aka go rileng?
Sone Sepoko sa maloba-le-maabane Aiyeeah!
    Understanding not a word, I was filled with a great sadness. ‘What language is that?’ I asked.
    ‘Setswana,’ she said. Her voice on the disc paused. The music came up and she sang with it wordlessly and very low. Then she continued speaking:
    Aiyeeah! Kutlobotlhoko ya sona ta se opela
Sona Sepoko sa maloba-le-maabane!
Se a opela, Se a opela sona sa fa loapi le ne le tlhapile,
dithaba di boitshega letsatsi ke bosigo jwa lona
di ya lolololo dinoka di elela!
    The music changed, the drums became more urgent. Constanze’s voice went higher and the words came more quickly:
    Utlwa fa ke go rao Nao, O itse tsa moloba-le-maabane
Kwa re tswang gona mmogo, fa lorato le ne re aparetse
le tletse mo pelong tsa rona, aiyeeah!
Le kae jaanong, le sietse kae?
Gore loapi le be le thibile jaona, dithaba di sa
ntsikinye, dinoka di kgadile jaana! Aiyeeah ka

iketlo mo tsebeng ya moja kopelo ya sepoko sa
moloba-le-maabane. Mo tsebeng ya molema go utlwala
fela kgakalo ya dikgang tsa sesheng, pherethlano
mo mebileng le modumo wa tse di fetileng
.
    Always the sadness came to me in those words I couldn’t understand. The vowels and the consonants had a life of their own that seemed also to be my life. I