Where You Belong
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‘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.
Iceberg Aggie, my grandfather had called her, and he had often wondered out loud to me what his son, my father, had ever seen in her. She had been very beautiful, of course. Still was, in all probability, although I hadn’t seen her for years, not since my Beirut days.
Cutting into my thoughts, Jake asked me again, ‘Is your mother very ill, Val?’
‘Donald didn’t really explain. All he said was that she wasn’t well and that she had told him she wanted to see me. He was relaying the message for her. But it can’t be anything serious, or he would have told me. Donald’s her pet, Jake, and very much under her thumb. Still, he never fools around with the truth when it comes to her well being, or anything to do with her. He’d definitely have told me if there were real problems, I’ve no doubts about that.’
‘Maybe she wants to make amends,’ Jake suggested, and raised a brow as he added, ‘A rapprochement perhaps?’
I shook my head vehemently. ‘No way. She hasn’t given a damn about me for thirty-one years. And I’m not going to New York.’
‘You could phone her.’
‘There’s nothing to say, Jake. I told you about her years ago.’ I bit my lip and shook my head slowly. ‘I can’t feel anything for a woman who has never felt anything for me.’
Jake did not respond and a long silence fell between us. But at last he broke it, when he said quietly, and with some compassion, ‘Jesus, Val, I’ve never been able to understand that, come to grips with her attitude towards you. It seems so unnatural for a mother not to love her child. I mean, what could she possibly have had against a new-born baby?’
‘Beats me,’ I answered, and lifted my shoulders in a light shrug. ‘My Denning grandparents could never fathom it out either, and as far as my mother’s mother was concerned, I really didn’t know her very well. My grandmother Violet Scott was an enigma to me, and she avoided me.’ I laughed harshly. ‘I used to think I was illegitimate when I was younger, and that my mother had become pregnant by another man before she married my father. But the dates were all wrong, they didn’t gel, because she’d been married to my father for over a year when I was born.’
‘Maybe she slept with somebody else after she married your father,’ Jake suggested.
‘I’ve thought of that as well, but I look too much like my grandmother Cecelia Denning, when she was my age. Grandfather always remarked about it, until the day he died.’
I jumped up and went to the secretaire, pulled open the bottom drawer and took out a cardboard box. Carrying it over to the sofa, I handed it to Jake. ‘Take a look at these,’ I said as I sat down next to him again.
He did so, staring for a few minutes at the old photographs of my grandmother which he had removed from the box. ‘Yes, you’re a Denning all right, and a dead ringer for Cecelia. If it weren’t for her old-fashioned clothes she could be you as you are today.’ He shuffled through the other photographs in the box and chuckled. ‘I took this one!’ he cried, waving a picture at me.
‘Hey, let me see that!’
Still laughing, he handed it to me. I couldn’t help smiling myself, as I stared back at my own image captured on celluloid. There I was in all my glory, standing outside the Commodore Hotel in Beirut, which is where I’d first set eyes on Jake. I was wearing my safari jacket and pants, and a collection of assorted cameras were slung haphazardly around my neck. It was obvious from my solemn expression that I took myself very seriously indeed. I was looking too self-important for words, and I gave a mock shudder. ‘I must have really fancied myself, but God, how awful I looked in those days.’
‘No, you were the most gorgeous thing on two legs I’d ever seen!’ he exclaimed, and then stopped with suddenness; a startled expression crossed his face, as if he had surprised himself with his words. Clearing his throat, Jake returned to the conversation about my mother, when he said, ‘It is very odd, Val, the way your mother has always treated you. With all of your accomplishments, she should be proud of you.’
I sighed, and made a small moue with my mouth. ‘It’s a mystery. And one I have no intention of solving. I just can’t be bothered. Now, how about taking me to dinner?’
CHAPTER FOUR
I
LONDON, SEPTEMBER
With a great deal of effort, I had managed to put the memorial service out of my mind for the last few days, but now that Jake and I were about to depart for it I was experiencing sudden panic. The service loomed large in my mind, and, very simply, I just didn’t want to go. In fact, my reluctance had become so acute it startled me. Later I was to ask myself if I’d had some sixth sense about it, a foreboding of trouble, but I wasn’t sure; I can never be certain about that.
In any event, there I stood waiting for Jake in the handsome panelled lobby of the Milestone, wondering how to gracefully wriggle out of going. Naturally I couldn’t. It was far too late to pull such a trick as that, and besides, I would never let Jake down.
Turning away from the front door, I spotted Jake coming towards me looking tanned and healthy and very smart in his dark suit, and wearing a shirt and tie for a change. But his expression was as sombre as his dark clothes, and he was limping as badly as he had yesterday when we’d arrived at Heathrow in a thunderstorm.
I didn’t dare mention the limp or ask him how he felt, since he’d practically bitten my head off last night when I’d worried out loud about his wounds. Instead I took hold of his arm, leaned into him and kissed his cheek.
He gave me a faint smile and said, ‘Sorry I kept you waiting. Now we’re running late, so we’d better get going, Val.’
I nodded and walked to the front door with him in silence, thinking how morose he was. He had sounded much more cheerful when we’d spoken earlier on the phone. But then he didn’t relish the next few hours any more than I did, I knew that.
The heavens opened up the moment Jake and I started to walk down the front steps of the hotel. The uniformed doorman hurried after us, wielding a large umbrella, and the two of us huddled under it as he led us to the waiting chauffeur-driven car which Jake had ordered last night.
Once we were seated in the car Jake said quietly, ‘It’ll be all right, Val, try not to worry so much. It’ll soon be over.’ Reaching out, he took hold of my hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
I glanced at him and gave him what must have been a rather sickly smile, and noticed the tight set of his lips, his drawn face. ‘You’re dreading the service just as much as I am. We’ve come to London against our better judgement. It’s a terrible mistake.’
‘We had no choice, we had to be here, so let’s just help each other through this as calmly as possible.’
‘Yes,’ I answered and turned my head, stared out of the car window, thinking what an awful, dreary day it was, especially for a memorial. Somehow the relentless rain, penetrating damp, and dark English skies emphasized the mournfulness of the occasion.
Being a very private person, especially when it came to my feelings, I’d never worn my emotions on my sleeve. And so I preferred to grieve for Tony in my own way, in the quiet of my home, not in a public place like the Brompton Oratory, although it was apparently a very beautiful Roman Catholic church; the Vatican of London, was the way someone had once described it to me years ago.
After a few minutes of staring out at the rain-sodden streets, as the car ploughed its way through the heavy London traffic, I turned away from the window. Taking a cue from Jake, who was huddled in the corner of the seat with his eyes closed, I did the same thing. And I did not open them until the car slid to a standstill outside the church.
I sat up, smoothed one hand over my hair, which I’d sleaked back into a neat chignon, and straightened the jacket of my black suit. Then I took a deep breath and made up my mind to get through the service with quiet dignity, and as much composure as I could muster.
II
There was such a crowd of people going into the Brompton Oratory it was hard to pick out friends and colleagues, or recognize anyone at a quick glance, for that matter. Everyone was dressed in black or other sombre colours, and faces were etched with solemnity or sorrow, or both.
I had wisely clamped on a pair of sunglasses before leaving the car, and these made me feel as if I were incognito, and also protected, if not actually invisible. Nevertheless, despite the concealing dark glasses, I clutched Jake’s arm as we mingled with the others filing into the church sedately and in a very orderly fashion.
We had just entered when I felt someone behind me tap me lightly on the shoulder. I glanced around to find myself staring into the lovely face of Nicky Wells, the Paris bureau chief of A.T.N., the most successful of all the American cable news networks.
She and I had been together in Tiananmen Square in Beijing, when the students had demonstrated against the Chinese government. That had been in 1989, and Nicky had been very helpful to me, since I was a beginner at the time. Fifteen years older than I, she had frequently taken me under her wing when I was such a novice.
We had remained friends ever since those early days, and would occasionally socialize in Paris. Standing next to Nicky was her husband Cleeland Donovan, another renowned war photographer, who had founded the agency Image some years ago. After the birth of their first child, Nicky had left the field as a war correspondent for her network, deeming it wiser and safer to remain in Paris covering local stories.
Jake and Clee had been good friends for many years, bonded as American expats, war photographers, and also as winners of the Robert Capa Award. This prize had been established in 1955, just after Capa’s death, by Life magazine and the Overseas Press Club of America, and was awarded for ‘the best photographic reporting from abroad requiring exceptional courage and enterprise’.
I knew that both men treasured this particular award as their proudest possession, Capa being a God to them, indeed to all of us in the business of being photojournalists covering wars.
The four of us hung back and spoke for a few moments about Tony and the sadness of the occasion, and then we arranged to make a date for dinner, once we were all in Paris at the same time for more than a couple of days.
As we began to move again it was Clee who said, ‘We can’t go to the wake afterwards, Jake. Nicky and I have to head back to Paris immediately after the service ends. Are you going?’ He looked from Jake to me.
I was so taken aback I couldn’t speak.
Jake cleared his throat, rather nervously I thought, and muttered something I didn’t quite catch. Then he added, ‘We’re in the same situation as you, Clee, we’ve got to get back too. Commitments to meet. But we might drop in for a few minutes, just to pay our respects.’
Nothing else was said, since the four of us were suddenly being edged forward by the throng pressing in behind us. I held onto Jake’s hand, but in the crush we became separated from Nicky and Clee. And a second or two later we found ourselves being ushered down one of the aisles and into a pew by a church official.
Once we were seated I grabbed Jake’s arm ferociously, pulled him closer to me and hissed, ‘You never told me anything about a wake.’
‘I thought it better not to, at least not until we got here,’ he admitted in a whisper.
‘Who’s giving the wake?’ I demanded, but kept my voice low, trying to curb my anger with him.
‘Rory and Moira.’ He glanced at me swiftly, and again nervously cleared his throat. ‘I have the distinct feeling we won’t be going, will we, Val?’
‘You bet we won’t,’ I snapped. I was livid.
III
It was just as well other people came into our pew at this precise moment, because it prevented a continuation of our conversation, which could have easily spiralled out of hand.
I was furious with Jake for not telling me about the wake before now, not to mention irritated with myself for not anticipating that there would be one.
Tony, after all, had been Irish; on the other hand, a wake was usually held after a funeral and not a memorial, wasn’t it? But the Irish were the Irish, with their own unique rules and rituals, and apparently a wake today was deemed in order, perhaps because the funeral had been held in Ireland. A wake was an opportunity for family and friends to get together, to comfort each other, to reminisce and remember, and to celebrate the one who had died. I was fully aware I wouldn’t be able to face the gathering. Coming on top of the memorial, it would be too much for me to handle. What I couldn’t understand was why Jake didn’t realize this.