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‘Mavourneen mine,’ I heard him whisper against my cheek, and I sighed again as I felt his hand touching my face, my neck, and then smoothing down over my breast…
Snapping my eyes wide open, I sat up with a jolt, got off the bed and hurried into the bathroom. Pressing my face against the glass wall of the shower stall, I told myself I must pull myself together, must stop thinking about him in that way…stop thinking about him sexually. I’ve got to get over him, he’s not coming back. He’s dead. And buried. Gone from this life. But I knew I couldn’t help myself. I knew that his memory would be always loitering in my mind, lingering in my heart. Haunting me.
III
I took off my dressing gown and the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower, let the hot water sluice down over my body, and then I dumped loads of shampoo on top of my head and thoroughly washed my hair.
After stepping out of the shower and towelling myself dry, I wrapped a smaller towel in a turban around my head. And then I examined my wound. I did this every day. There was a funny puckering around it, but that would go away eventually; that’s what my doctor here in Paris had told me.
I’d been very fortunate, he’d explained when I’d first gone to see him, in that the bullet had missed muscle and bone, and gone right through flesh. Where it had exited, it had left a gaping hole originally, and the main problem for the doctors in Belgrade had been picking out the bits of cloth from my clothes which had been blown into the open wound. They had apparently done an excellent job, according to Dr Bitoun, and I had healed well.
There was no question about it in my mind, luck had been running with me that day. Just as it had with Jake. The two of us had somehow been protected.
IV
The storm broke as I finished dressing.
Thunder and lightning rampaged across the sky, and I turned on additional lights in my bedroom before going through into the living room.
A master switch controlled all of the lamps in there, and a second after I’d hit it with my finger the room was bathed in a lambent glow. I glanced around, my eyes taking in everything.
Although I knew this room so well, it always gave me pleasure whenever I looked at it. My grandfather had put it together, had created the decorative scheme, and his choices in furniture, all gifts from him to me, had been superb. Even the lamps and paintings had been his selections, and the room had a cohesion and a quiet beauty that was very special.
Janine, the wonderfully efficient and motherly Frenchwoman who looked after the apartment, and me when I was in it, had been very visible all day yesterday. She had cleaned and polished and fussed around in general, and had even arrived bearing a lovely gift…the masses of pink roses which she had arranged in various bowls around the living room.
And tonight the room literally shone from her efforts. The antique wood pieces were warm and mellow in the lamplight, gleamed like dark ripe fruit; how beautifully they stood out against the rose-coloured walls, while the silk-shaded porcelain lamps threw pools of soft light onto their glistening surfaces.
Like the rest of the apartment, the floor in the living room was of a dark, highly polished wood, and left bare as the floors in the other rooms were. The latter were decorated more simply, since I’d done them myself; it was Grandfather’s room, as I called it, which looked the best.
After admiring it from the doorway for a moment longer I then stepped inside, went over and straightened a few cushions on the deep rose linen-covered sofa near the fireplace, before bending over to sniff Janine’s roses. For once they had a perfume, actually smelled of roses, which was unusual these days. Most bought flowers had no scent at all.
I went into the kitchen, checked that there were bottles of white wine in the refrigerator, and returned to my bedroom. For a minute or two I studied myself in the long mirror on a side wall, thinking that I looked much better than I had for days. Healthy, in fact. But that was merely an illusion, one very cleverly created by my artifice with cosmetics; a golden-tinted foundation camouflaged my deathly pallor, hid the dark smudges under my eyes. The latter I’d enhanced with a touch of eye shadow and mascara; while a hint of pink blush and pink lipstick helped to bring a little additional life to my wan face.
The real truth was that I’d looked quite ill for the past week, haggard, white-faced, and red-eyed from crying, and I hadn’t wanted Jake to see me looking that way tonight. He worried enough about me as it was.
I wasn’t sure where we were going to dinner, so I’d chosen one of my basic outfits – black gabardine trousers, a white silk shirt and a black blazer. My blonde-streaked hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and, as I regarded myself objectively, I thought: Plain Jane and then some.
Turning around, I went to the desk, opened the drawer and took out a pair of small pearl earrings. I was putting them on when the doorbell rang.
I hurried through into the hall, anxious to see Jake who had been gone for the past week.
‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,’ he drawled when I flung open the door to let him in.
‘Likewise,’ I answered, and we stood there staring at each other.
Then he reached out eagerly and pulled me into his arms, enveloping me in a tight bear hug. And he held me so close to him I was momentarily startled.
V
When Jake finally let go of me he gave me an odd little smile that seemed a bit self-conscious to me. Then he abruptly swung around and closed the front door.
For a moment I believed that he too was startled by the fervour and length of his embrace, and then I changed my mind. He was my best friend and we had been close for years, so why wouldn’t he hug me when he’d just returned from a trip? And especially under the circumstances.
‘It’s not raining,’ I murmured.
‘No, it’s not,’ he answered, turning to look at me. ‘The storm seems to have blown away before it got started.’
I nodded and headed for the kitchen to open a bottle of his favourite Pouilly-Fuissé.
Jake followed me.
‘I’ll do that,’ he said when I took the bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. He opened a drawer where he knew I kept the bar utensils and found a corkscrew. While he deftly pulled the cork, I took two wine glasses out of the cupboard and set them on the counter next to him, and a second later he was pouring wine for us.
He handed me a glass, and I said, ‘I’ve got good news, Jake. Mike heard from Ajet’s brother. Qemal told him Ajet is safe and well in Macedonia.’
‘Hey, that’s great!’ he exclaimed, and clinked his glass to mine. ‘Here’s to Ajet. Thank God he made it okay.’
I nodded. ‘To Ajet.’
We took our drinks into the living room, where Jake lowered himself into a chair near the fireplace and I sat down in the corner of the sofa, as I always did.
‘What’s the full story?’ Jake asked, peering across at me over the rim of his glass.
‘Apparently Ajet went searching for us that day, when the shelling started, but before he found us he was shot,’ I explained. ‘He was badly wounded, but fortunately he was found by some local people.’
I went on to tell Jake how Ajet had been passed on to Kosovar soldiers, taken to a hospital in Albania and then moved to Macedonia. I finally finished, ‘If you remember, I wrote down my agency number for him. And once he was well enough he asked Qemal to call Gemstar.’
‘It’s a relief to know he’s all right. Ajet was straight with us, and wanted to help any way he could. He’s a good kid.’
I settled back, studying Jake, thinking how well he looked after a week’s rest in the south. He’d asked me to go with him to St-Jean-Cap Ferrat, but I’d declined, and I suddenly wondered if that might have been a mistake on my part. A vacation would have obviously done me good. His few days in the sun had given him a golden tan, turned his streaky hair more blond than ever, and he was in glowing health. Tonight he was wearing a blue cotton shirt with his grey sports jacket and slacks, and his eyes looked more vividly blue than ever.
‘You’re staring at me,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’ That was Jake, who was always questioning me about everything in my life. It had been that way since we’d first met in Beirut.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I replied at last. ‘It’s just that you look in such great shape, I think I ought to have accepted your invitation.’
‘Yes, you should have,’ he quickly replied. He spoke softly enough, but I detected a certain undertone of vehemence in his voice. He took a long swallow of white wine and then sat nursing his drink, staring down into the glass, his face thoughtful.
When he looked up at me, he said, ‘You needed a holiday, and even though you think you look great, you don’t really. The make up doesn’t deceive me. And you’ve lost weight.’
So much for my efforts with the cosmetic pots, I thought, and said, ‘Black makes me look thin.’
‘It’s me you’re talking to,’ he answered. ‘I know you better than everyone, even better than you know yourself.’ He put the glass down on the coffee table and seemed about to get up, but suddenly leaned back against the linen cushions and closed his eyes.
After a couple of minutes, I ventured, ‘Are you feeling all right, Jake?’
Opening his eyes, he said, ‘Yep. But I’m worried about you, Val.’
‘Oh please don’t,’ I cried. ‘I’m fine. I haven’t lost a pound,’ I lied. ‘Nothing. Nada. Zilch.’
He shook his head. ‘Has Mike said anything about your going back to work?’
‘He said I was welcome back any time I felt like coming in, but to take my time, that it was my call.’
‘The sooner you get back to the agency the better, in my opinion. You need to be busy, occupied, Val, not walking around the streets of Paris every day, and sitting here alone in the apartment afterwards. I know you’re suffering. I am too. Tony was my best buddy, but life is for the living. We’ve got to go on, that’s what he would want.’
‘I’m trying hard, I really am, Jake. And the walking helps. I’m not sure why, but it does.’
‘You’re less alone when you’re out there in the streets. They make you feel more alive because they’re full of life, people, traffic, noise, activity. The streets are the world. Did I ever tell you about John Steinbeck and what he did when he heard that Robert Capa had been killed in Indochina?’
I frowned. I wasn’t certain whether he’d told me or not, and yet at the back of my mind I thought that perhaps he had. Or was it Tony who had told me? Certainly we all revered Capa, the greatest war photographer who had ever lived. I said, ‘I’m not sure, you might have. But tell me again.’
‘Capa was killed in 1954, on May 25th actually, as I’m sure you recall. And of course within hours news of his death spread around the world. Steinbeck, who was a good friend of Capa’s, was in Paris when he heard. He was so shaken up he went out and walked the streets for fourteen hours straight. I guess he just couldn’t believe it. And he couldn’t sit still. He had to be on the move. And you’re doing something very similar, but you’re doing it every day, Val.’
‘No, I’m not, I don’t walk the streets for fourteen hours!’
Jake sighed and said nothing, just gave me one of those penetrating looks of his that always made me re-examine everything I said to him. I shrugged, and finally admitted, ‘Okay, you’re right, I guess I am doing the same thing. And you did tell me the story. It was on one of those days when you were cross with Tony because you thought he was too reckless. You were comparing him to Capa.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’ Jake sat up straighter and gave me a hard stare. ‘Capa wasn’t reckless in the way that Tony was. Those who knew Capa always said he was very cautious. Don’t forget, he was an expert when it came to taking calculated risks. When he went to Indochina, it was his fifth war, and only a photojournalist of his great experience would know how to properly calculate when something was truly dangerous or not. From what I know about him, he measured the risks, especially when he had to walk across exposed areas, and he was always cautious, did not take risks unnecessarily. But if he saw the possibility of a great photograph and there was a calculated risk, then he took the risk. Tony just rushed in without –’ He cut himself off, and took a swallow of his wine, obviously feeling disloyal.
‘Without thinking,’ I finished for him, stood up and headed towards the kitchen.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get the bottle of wine,’ I answered. When I came back, I filled his goblet, and then mine, and put the bottle down on the glass coffee table. ‘What about the memorial service?’ I said, getting right to the heart of the matter. ‘Do you know when it is?’
‘Next week. On Tuesday.’
‘I see. Where’s it being held?’
‘At the Brompton Oratory at eleven o’clock.’
I was silent, looked down at the drink in my hands.
Jake said, ‘I’ve booked us in at the Milestone in Kensington. I know you like that hotel.’
I nodded. He had surprised me with the information about the memorial. Events seemed to be moving more quickly than I’d anticipated, and I wasn’t prepared at all. Only four days away. And then I’d be sitting there amongst all of his friends and colleagues, many of them my colleagues, in fact, and listening to the world talk about the man I was still mourning. I was suddenly appalled at the idea and I sat back jerkily.
Jake was telling me something else, and I blinked and tried to concentrate on his words. He was saying, ‘I’ve spoken to Clee Donovan, and he’s definitely going to be there, and I’ve left messages for the Turnley brothers. I know they’ll come too, if they’re able.’
I gazed at him blankly. I was feeling overwhelmed and the prospect of going to London frightened me, filled me with tension and anxiety.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jake asked.
I swallowed. ‘I’m…dreading it. There’ll be such a lot of people there,’ I muttered almost to myself.
Jake made no response for a split second, and then he said, ‘I know what you mean, but let’s be glad and proud that so many people want to celebrate Tony’s life. Because that’s what a memorial is, Val, a celebration that the person was ever alive. We are showing our gratitude that Tony was born and was among us for as long as he was.’
‘Yes.’
He got up and came and sat next to me on the sofa, took hold of my hand in the most loving way. ‘I know it’s tough…but he’s dead, Val, and you’ve got to accept that because –’
‘I do,’ I cut in, my voice rising slightly.
‘You’ve got to get yourself busy, start working. You can’t just…drift like this.’
I stared at him. There he was, being bossy again in that particular very macho way of his, and before I could stop myself I exclaimed, ‘You’ve not done very much yourself since we came back from Belgrade.’ And I could have bitten my tongue off as soon as these dreadful words left my mouth; I felt the flush of embarrassment rising from my neck to flood my face.
‘I wish I had been able to work, but my leg’s been pretty bad, and it’s taken longer to heal than I expected.’
I was furious with myself. ‘I’m sorry, Jake, I shouldn’t have said that. I know your injuries were more severe than mine. I’m so stupid, thoughtless.’
‘No, you’re not, and listen: let’s make a pact right now. To help each other go forward from where we are tonight, to get ourselves moving. Let’s get started again, Val, let’s pick up our cameras and get on with the job.’
‘I don’t think I could go back to Kosovo.’
‘God, I wasn’t meaning that! I don’t want to go there either, but there are other things we can cover as well as wars.’
‘But we’re best known for doing that,’ I reminded him.
‘We can pick and choose our assignments, Val darling.’
‘I suppose so,’ I muttered, glancing at him.
Jake’s eyes changed, turned darker blue, became reflective, and after a moment he adroitly changed the subject, remarked, ‘I’ve booked us on a plane to London on Monday night, okay?’
The whole idea of the memorial was a nightmare to me, and not trusting myself to say anything, I simply nodded. Reaching for my glass, I took a sip of wine, then put the glass down and exclaimed with forced cheerfulness, ‘Tell me about your trip to the south of France.’
‘It was really great, Val, I wish you’d been with me –’ Jake stopped and glanced at the phone as it started to ring.
I extracted my hand from his, got up and went to the small desk on which it stood. ‘Hullo?’
VI
To my utter amazement it was my brother Donald calling from New York, and I sat down heavily on the small chair next to the little desk. I was flummoxed on hearing his voice, although after we’d exchanged greetings I quickly pulled myself together and listened alertly to what he had to say. Donald had always been tricky, extremely devious, and dissimulation was second nature to him.
Once he had finished his long speech, I said, ‘I just can’t get away right now. I have to go to London next week, to a memorial service for a fallen colleague, and I’ve also got loads of assignments stacking up.’
I listened again as patiently as possible, and once more I said, ‘I’m sorry, I cannot make the trip at this time. And listen, I really can’t stay on the phone, I have guests and I’ve got to go. Thanks for calling.’ In his typical selfish fashion, determined to get all of his points across, Donald went on blabbering at me, and short of banging the receiver down rudely, I had no option but to hear him out. When he finally paused for breath, I saw my opportunity and jumped in, repeated that I could not leave Europe under any circumstances for the time being. After saying a quick goodbye, I hung up.
Returning to the sofa, I sat down and said, ‘What a nerve! I can’t believe he called me!’
‘Who? And what did he call you about to get you so het up?’
I turned towards Jake and explained, ‘It was my brother Donald calling from New York. To tell me my mother’s not well, I should say his mother, because she’s never been a mother to me. He wanted me to fly to New York. What cheek!’
‘What’s wrong with her? Is she very sick?’
I saw the frown, the baffled almost confused look in his eyes, and I instantly realized that he’d never truly understood the relationship I’d had with my mother. But then how could he understand, when I couldn’t either. From what Jake had told me about himself during the years we’d known each other, he came from a marvellously warm, loving, close-knit Jewish family, and he had been raised with a lot of love, understanding and tremendous support from his parents, grandparents and sisters. Whereas I’d been an orphan within the bosom of the Denning family. If it hadn’t been for my father’s parents, Grandfather in particular, I would have withered away and died a young death from emotional deprivation. I asked myself then why I even thought in terms of having a relationship with Mother, because there had never been a relationship between us.
