After a moment, I lifted my head and glanced up.
The sky was a perfect cerulean blue, without cloud, and the sun was shining brilliantly. Summer, I thought; I ought to be on vacation with Tony, not spread-eagle on the ground with my face pressed into the dirt in some obscure village in the Balkans.
Small rubbery legs and arms began to wriggle, eellike, under me, and I finally rolled off the child, jumped up, and pulled him to his feet.
He gazed up at me soulfully with a faint, perplexed smile; I smiled back and gave him a little push toward a young woman who was rushing toward us, calling out something I did not understand. With a nod to me and the words “Thank you” spoken in carefully pronounced but accented English, the young woman grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged him away. It was obvious that she was scolding him as the two of them moved away from the shelling and went behind one of the houses on the side of the road.
I was glad to see the child taken to safety; at least I hoped he was safe. Many of the nearby houses and shops had been bombed, had crumbled into heaps of stones and bricks, and there were fires flaring everywhere.
Wondering where Tony and Jake were, I glanced around, suddenly saw their backs disappearing down a narrow side street. Immediately I jogged after them, trying to catch up, not wanting to be left behind.
The shelling had now reached a crescendo, and I knew Tony and Jake were heading right into the maelstrom, their cameras poised. I followed them into the fray, but for once, much to my surprise and consternation, I realized I did so against my better judgment. I had to admit to myself that for the first time in my association with Tony and Jake I had certain misgivings about following Tony’s lead. A curious sense of foreboding swept over me, and this feeling was so unfamiliar, so unprecedented, I was startled, and I stopped in my tracks, discovering that for a split second I was unable to move forward. I was rooted to the spot.
Then the moment I’d had nightmares about, had forever dreaded, was suddenly and frighteningly upon me. Tony was going down, his camera flying out of his hands as he was struck by a stream of bullets. He was thrown backward by the impact, lay sprawled on the cobbled street, still and unmoving.
“Tony! Tony!” I screamed, and began to run to him.
Jake, who was closer, also shouted his name, and went on. “I’m coming to you, Tony, hang in there!” But the words had hardly left Jake’s mouth, when he toppled forward and fell to the ground, hit by a sniper’s bullets.
Without thinking about safety, I pressed on through the curtain of gunfire and shrapnel, heading toward my friends, knowing I must do something to help them, although I was not certain what I could do under these horrific circumstances.
Out of breath and panting, I paused momentarily next to Jake, bent over him, and gasped, “How bad are you?”
“I’ve been hit in my leg and hip, but I’m okay, don’t worry about me. It’s Tony I’m concerned about.”
“Me too,” I muttered, and sprinted away. When I reached Tony, I dropped to my knees next to him. “Darling, it’s me.” As I spoke, I moved a strand of black hair away from his damp forehead and stared down into his face.
Finally he opened his eyes. “Go, Val. Find cover. Dangerous here,” he told me in a low, strangled voice.
“I’m not going to leave you,” I answered, looking him over swiftly. I was appalled at his gunshot wounds, and I felt myself filling with dread. He had been hit in his chest, his shoulder, and his legs, and seemingly other parts of his body as well, as far as I could make out. I was frightened and alarmed by all the blood; he was covered in it, as if he had been riddled with bullets. Oh God, oh God, he might not make it. I swallowed the cry that rose in my throat. It took all my self-control not to break down; I leaned over him, brought my face close to his. “I’m not leaving you, Tony,” I repeated, endeavoring to keep my voice as steady as possible.
“Go,” he whispered. Summoning all of his strength, he managed to say, “Get out. For me.” His voice was very shaky.
Realizing that Tony was becoming unduly agitated by my continuing presence, and knowing that I must try to find help for both men, I finally acquiesced. “All right, I’ll go,” I murmured against Tony’s face. I stroked his cheek. “Just stay calm, lay still. I won’t be long. I’ll be back with help very soon.”
I kissed him lightly and began to crawl away on my hands and knees, keeping low and close to the ground in an effort to dodge the flying bullets. I was making for a small building nearby, one of the few that remained standing, and I had almost reached it, when I felt the impact of a bullet slamming into my thigh. I slumped down in a heap, wincing in pain and clutching my Leica to my chest. Then I glanced down at my leg; blood was already oozing through my khaki pants, and it occurred to me that I wasn’t going to be much use to either Tony or Jake.
Turning my head, I glanced over at Jake. “How’re you doing?”
“Okay. Are you hurt very badly, Val?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied, and hoped this was really the case. Although deep down I was fairly certain it wasn’t, I nevertheless had a need to reassure Jake.
He asked over the battery of noise, “What about Tony?”
“He’s not good,” I said, and my voice wobbled. “He’s terribly shot up and in need of medical attention, urgent need of it, and much more than we are. I saw a Red Cross ambulance up on the ridge over there, and let’s hope the medics get here quickly. Tony’s losing masses of blood . . .” I swallowed. “It’s . . . it’s touch and go with him . . . I think. . . .”
For a moment Jake could not speak. He was obviously distressed by my words. At last he said, “Tony’s going to be all right, Val. He’s tough, and don’t forget he’s always said he has the luck of the Irish.”
“He also says he’s blessed by the saints,” I replied tensely. “I hope he’s right.”
Jake called back, “Just keep cool, hang in there, honey.”
I could hardly hear him. His words were almost but not quite drowned out by the explosions and the thunder of mortar fire, which seemed to be closer than ever. In a few minutes troops were swarming everywhere, both the K.L.A. and the Serbians; they were filling the village, running through the streets, fighting. I wasn’t sure who was who. I looked for distinguishing emblems on their uniforms but without success, then remembered that those who wore the black paratrooper berets were the Kosovars. They seemed to be outnumbered. I closed my eyes, hoping I would be taken for dead and overlooked. I knew there was no longer any possibility of dragging myself over to Tony. My spirit was more than willing, but I was just too weak physically, and the troops were converging now.
So I resigned myself to wait for the Red Cross ambulance I had seen not long before. Surely it would drive down into the village soon. Putting my hand under my T-shirt, I found the gold chain on which I’d hung Tony’s ring. He had given it to me only a couple of weeks earlier, when we had been in Paris together. Suddenly tears were dangerously close to the surface as memories of those happy days rushed back to flood my mind.
My fingers closed around the ring. I began to pray: Oh God, please let Tony be all right. Please don’t let him die. Please, please, let him live. I went on praying silently, and the fighting raged on around me unabated.
III
White light, very bright white light, was invading my entire being, or so it seemed. I was suffused in the bright white light until I became part of it; I was no longer myself, but the light . . .
I opened my eyes and blinked rapidly. The light was harsh, startling, and I felt disoriented. And for a moment I thought I had not really woken up, but was still in my dream, living the dream. As I blinked again, came slowly awake, I wondered where I was; still somewhat disoriented, I glanced around in puzzlement. The white walls and ceiling and the white tile floor, in combination with the brilliant sunlight flooding through the windows, created a dazzling effect . . . echoing the bright white light that had dominated my strange and haunting dream.
Shifting sl
ightly in the bed, I winced as a sharp pain shot up my thigh, and immediately I remembered everything. Of course, I was in a hospital room. In Belgrade. After the three of us had been shot, we had subsequently been rescued by the Red Cross and patched up by the doctors on a temporary basis, so that we could travel. We had then been taken to Pe in the ambulance I had seen in the village when the fighting had first started.
As I’d suspected, Jake and I had not been as seriously injured as Tony, who was in critical condition, having lost a lot of blood. Fortunately, the medics in Pe had been able to give him a blood transfusion before the three of us were flown out.
Details of the flight came back to me as my mind finally began to clear. Tony had been on a stretcher in the transport plane, and I sat next to him all the way, holding his hand, talking to him, begging him to keep fighting. The one good thing was that the medics were hopeful he would pull through; they had told me and Jake that Tony had a better than average chance of making it. He had slept through most of the flight while Jake and I kept a vigil by his side; our hopes soared as we had headed toward Belgrade because he was holding his own so well.
But when was the flight? Yesterday? The day before? Or even earlier than that?
Glancing at my wrist, expecting to see the time, I discovered I was not wearing my watch. My eyes strayed to the utilitarian metal nightstand, but it was not there either. The top of the stand was entirely empty.
I pushed aside the bedclothes, and, moving gingerly, inched myself into an upright position, and then maneuvered my body onto the edge of the bed. My bandaged thigh was still quite sore from the gunshot wound, but I managed, nonetheless, to stand up, and I was surprised and relieved to discover that I was relatively steady on my feet and had only the slightest amount of discomfort when I walked.
In the cramped bathroom attached to the hospital room, I ran cold water into the sink and splashed my face with it, patted myself dry with a paper towel, and peered into the mirror. My reflection didn’t please me. I looked lousy, done in. But then, what else could I expect? My pallor was unusual—normally I have such good color— and there were violet smudges under my eyes.
Moving slowly, I made it back to the bed, where I sat on the edge, fretting about Tony and Jake, and wondering what to do next. My main concern was Tony, whose injuries were the worst. Where the hell was he in this hospital? And where was Jake? My clothes had apparently been taken away, and since I was wearing only a skimpy cotton hospital gown tied at the back, I couldn’t very well go wandering around in search of them. My eyes scanned the room for a phone. There wasn’t one.
A sudden loud knocking on the door startled me, and I glanced toward it just as it was pushed open, and Jake, heavily bandaged and supporting himself on a pair of crutches, hobbled in. He was unshaven and looked crumpled in hospital-issue pajamas and an equally creased cotton robe.
“Hi,” he said, and propping the crutches against the wall near the nightstand, he half hopped, half limped to the bed, where he sat down next to me. “How’re you doing, Val?”
“Well, I’m obviously not going dancing ce soir,” I said, glancing down first at my bandaged thigh, which bulged under the cotton gown, and then at him. “I’ll give you a rain check. And you seem to be doing okay with your balancing act on those crutches.”
He nodded.
“How’s Tony? Have you seen him yet? Where is he? When can I go and see him?”
Jake did not answer me.
I stared at him.
He gazed back at me, still not saying a word.
I saw then how pale he was, and haggard-looking, and noticed that his bright blue eyes were clouded, bloodshot, as if he’d been crying. Inside I began to shrivel, scorched by an innate knowledge I dare not admit existed. But it did. Oh yes.
Jake cleared his throat and looked at me intently.
My heart dropped. I knew instinctively what he was going to say; an awful sense of dread took me in its stranglehold, and I felt my throat closing. Clasping my hands tightly together, I braced myself for bad news.
“I’m afraid Tony didn’t make it, Val darling,” Jake said at last, his tone low, almost inaudible. And final. “He’d become far too weakened before we arrived here, and he’d lost such a great deal of blood initially—” Jake paused when his voice broke, but eventually he went on. “It’s devastating . . . I never thought it could happen, I—” Very abruptly, he stopped again and, unable to continue, he said nothing more, simply sat there helplessly, gazing at me, shaking his head. His sorrow was reflected in his face, which was gray, bereft.
I was speechless. Finally, I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. There was a long, silent scream echoing through my brain, and I snapped my eyes shut, wishing I could block it out, wishing I could steady myself. Instead, I fell apart, began to shake uncontrollably as shock engulfed me.
A second later I felt Jake’s strong arms encircling me, and I clung to him, sobbed against his shoulder. Jake wept also, and we held on to each other for a long time. And together we mourned the loss of a man we both loved who had died before his time.
Chapter 2
I
Paris, September I have always loved my apartment on the Left Bank where I’ve lived for the last seven years. It is spacious, light, and airy, with six large windows in its three main rooms, all of which are of good proportions. These rooms open onto each other, and this enfilade gives it a lovely flowing feeling that appeals to my sense of order and symmetry, traits inherited from my grandfather, who was an architect.
But ever since my return from Belgrade in August, I’ve been experiencing an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, one which I am still finding hard to dispel. Although I can’t quite understand why I should feel this way, every day I have the constant need to flee my apartment as soon as I awaken.
It’s not that it holds any heart-wrenching memories of Tony, because it doesn’t. Friends for a long time though we were, we did not become emotionally involved with each other until twelve months ago; besides which, he hardly ever spent any time at my place, being constantly on the move for work, or in London, where he lived.
I was aware that my urge to get out had more to do with my own innermost feelings of despair than anything else; I’ve been unnaturally agitated inside and filled with a weird restlessness that propels me into the street, and as early as dawn sometimes.
The streets of Paris are my solace, and part of my healing process physically in a very real sense. First, the constant walking every day is therapeutic because it strengthens my damaged leg; second, being outside in the open air, among crowds of people bustling about their business, somehow soothes my troubled soul, lifts my spirits, and helps to diminish my depression.
Today, as usual, I got up early. After coffee and a croissant at my local café on the corner, I set off at a steady pace, taking my long daily walk. It’s become a ritual for me, I suppose, something I find so very necessary. At least for the time being. Soon I hope my leg will be completely healed so that I can return to work.
It was a Friday morning in the middle of September, a lovely, mild day. The ancient buildings were already acquiring a burnished sheen in the bright sunlight, and the sky was an iridescent blue above their gleaming rooftops. It was a golden day, filled with crystalline light, and a soft breeze blew across the river Seine. My heart lifted with a little rush of pleasure, and for a moment, grief was held at bay.
Paris is the only place I’ve ever wanted to live, and for as long as I can remember; I fell in love with it as a child, when I first came on a trip with my grandparents, Cecelia and Andrew Denning. I used to tell Tony that it was absolutely essential to my well-being, and if Jake happened to be present, he would nod, agreeing, and pointing out that he lived there for the same reason as I did.
I always thought it odd that Tony would merely frown, looking baffled, as if he didn’t understand what I meant. Tony was born in London, and it was there that he lived all his life. And whenever the three of us wou
ld have this discussion about the merits of the two cities, he would laugh and shake his head. “London is essential to me because it’s a man’s city,” he would remark, and wink at Jake.
I had supposed he was alluding to those very British private clubs for men filled with old codgers reading The Times, the male-dominated pubs, cricket at Lords, football at Wembley, and the Savile Row tailors who appealed to his desire for sartorial elegance when not on the battlefront covering wars. He had never really discussed it in depth, but then, he had been like that about a lot of things, an expert at brushing certain matters aside if he didn’t want to talk about them.
Thoughts of Tony intruded, swamped me, instantly washing away the mood of a few moments earlier, when I had felt almost happy again. I came to a stop abruptly, leaned against the wall of a building, taking deep breaths, willing the sudden surge of anguish to go away. Eventually it did recede, became less acute, and taking control of my swimming senses, I walked on purposefully.
It struck me as being rather odd, the way I vacillated between bouts of mind-boggling pain at his loss and the most savage attacks of anger.
There were those tear-filled days when I believed I would never recover from his death, which had been so sudden, so tragic, when grief was like an iron mantle weighting me down, bringing me to my knees. At these times it seemed that my sorrow was unendurable.
Miraculously, though, my heartbreak would inexplicably wash away quite unexpectedly, and I would feel easier within myself, in much better spirits altogether, and I was glad of this respite from pain, this return to normality. I was almost like my old self.
It was then that the anger usually kicked in with a vengeance, shaking me with its intensity. I was angry because Tony was dead when he should have been alive, and I blamed him for his terrible recklessness, the risks he had taken in Kosovo, risks that had ultimately cost him his life. Unnecessary risks, in my opinion.
Destiny, I thought, and came to a halt. As I stood there in the middle of the street, frowning to myself, I suddenly understood with the most stunning rush of clarity that if character is destiny, then it had been Tony’s fate to die in the way he had. Because of his character . . . and who and what he was as a man.
Where You Belong Page 2