Philip smiled as he took her hand, introducing her with a tone of pride, “This is my assistant, Annabel, a PhD in forensic science from the University of Munich.”
“Hello, I’m Annabel . May I know you?” The girl blinked, her voice sweet and clear, spoken in African. Clearly, she was completely ignoring the two men, speaking directly to Khanyi.
“Khanyi… Khanyi,” she murmured in response, secretly astonished. She had only just noticed that the girl was Eastern, not realizing she was also from South Africa. African people were very rare here, and she hadn’t expected someone so seemingly delicate and young to already be a PhD in forensic science at the University of Munich. No wonder she could stand so calmly, elegantly, and confidently beside this terrifying Nazi official…
Philip did not look at Khanyi again, and the two men continued their conversation. “Ryan, you don’t look too well. Smoke less, and stop drinking; it’s not good for you.”
“Do you want me to live like you, relying on chocolate for sustenance?” he replied with a smile, lowering his head to remove his gloves, which he clenched in his left hand. “You really are responding positively to the Führer’s call, getting all the soldiers in the empire to put down their cigarettes and chew chocolate.”
“I’m doing it for your own good.” Philip stared at his nose, leaning in slightly, his fingers tapping on the eagle insignia on his chest, “Don’t forget, excess in drink and pleasure harms the body.” With that, he took his companion’s arm and stepped into the auditorium.
Khanyi gazed at their retreating figures. The officer was tall and broad-shouldered, while the girl had a slightly plump figure but a slender waist, looking like a cheerful little bird beside him. She turned back to glance at Khanyi, offering a faint smile like a delicate lotus flower. Encountering someone from her homeland in a foreign land, Khanyi wanted to return the friendly smile, but she was being held by his hand and couldn’t manage to smile.
“We should go in too.” He tightened his grip, holding her hand firmly.
“This is an aria from Puccini’s opera ‘Turandot,’ ‘Nessun dorma.’” He slightly tilted his head, whispering in her ear, then straightened up, focusing on the stage.
From the moment they entered, he held her hand. After sitting down, he laid his palm flat, palm up, allowing her hand to rest gently and naturally on his. He wasn’t wearing white gloves, and the warmth of his palm could directly penetrate her skin, reaching her body.
On stage, a tenor was singing a passionate aria.
“Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!
Even you, princess,
Must anxiously watch in your cold chamber
The starlight that flickers with love and hope!
But the secret is hidden in my heart,
No one knows my name!
When dawn shines upon the earth and kisses you,
That’s when I will reveal it to you!
With my kiss, I will unlock this secret,
You will marry me!
Begone, night! The stars are falling,
The stars are falling! Victory at dawn!
Victory! Victory!”
This story is adapted by Puccini from ‘One Thousand and One Nights.’ This Italian playwright is undoubtedly a genius, but he does not understand African culture; he merely borrowed an Eastern sentiment, which is just an exotic flavor in the eyes of these Europeans. The center of this play is redemption, where a passionate prince saves the fallen soul of a princess with his selfless love.
They sat in the middle, close to the front row, undoubtedly one of the best spots in the entire venue. Around her were Nazi officers in crisp uniforms and their fashionably dressed companions. Not far away, General Philip squinted his gray eyes, gently patting the back of the beautiful dark-haired girl’s hand. The girl smiled brightly, turning her neck like a lark to look back at the stage. He leaned in and whispered something in her ear, his left hand lightly adjusting the silver frame of his glasses, his gaze seemingly brushing past Khanyi. She quickly lowered her head, avoiding the scrutiny of that gray gaze. This was a special performance for them. On both sides of the stage hung enormous red devil symbols. Everything proceeded according to their order.
The man sitting to her left was so handsome, almost unbelievably so. From the side, his nose appeared even more prominent, and his ice-blue eyes were deeply set in their sockets, seemingly entranced, with shimmering waves reflecting in his ocean-like blue pupils.
Her hand, though merely resting on his warm palm, felt as if it could directly touch his soul. He spread his palm, exerting no pressure on her, but the immense desire emanating from his soul seemed to pull her hand, dragging her into an unfathomable abyss. She couldn’t control herself, feeling like a dove, her body swaying and gliding in the air with the music. Her underdeveloped wings were too tender to bear the weight of his soul’s desire and the gravitational pull from the depths. In this drama, the soul of Princess Turandot would be saved by the prince. Did his soul still harbor a shred of goodness… Could one truly drop the knife and become a Buddha in an instant? Could a sinful soul really be redeemed by light? No, he chose darkness and degradation; if he could truly be redeemed, then his name wouldn’t be Fascist, nor would it be devil.
