by Mark Lee
Back in California, my uncle Carl and I would spend an entire afternoon wandering around the stubble of his cornfield with our arthritic golden retriever. If we were lucky, the dog flushed five or six pheasants, and we killed two of them. The shoot at Richard’s estate had a larger sense of order. Quinn muttered commands into his walkie-talkie and I heard a distant clicking sound. The beaters were on the hill above us, tapping sticks together as they drove the birds toward the edge of the cliff.
Muldoon handed me a pair of ear defenders. He loaded both shotguns and showed me how to exchange them. I was supposed to reach with my right hand for the new gun while handing off the empty weapon with my left. The motion reminded me of switching cameras and I learned the routine quickly. When I glanced down the line, I saw that Billy was fumbling with Richard’s guns.
Muldoon jerked his head toward Billy. “I don’t know why a man needs a bodyguard in the country. The only thing dyin’ today are the birds.”
“Are they coming off that hill?”
“Aye. The birds live down there.” Muldoon pointed to a thicket of larch and birch trees directly behind us. “But Mr. Quinn feeds ’em up there.” He pointed to the hill. “When the lads come through, the birds fly off that rise, tryin’ to get back to their pen. Put Big Ben in the sky and shoot between ten and two o’clock.” He gestured to the left and right, establishing the firing perimeters. “Whatever you do, don’t shoot behind us.”
“When I used to hunt in America, we only shot at the male birds. What’s the rule here?”
“Shoot what you want, sir.”
“What’s your rule, Mr. Muldoon?”
The old man gave me a sideways glance. He looked cautious, not sure if he could trust me. “I don’t shoot the hens myself. It’s more sporting.”
“I’ll try for the males, but no promises. Sometimes they rise high and fast.”
Muldoon chuckled and took out a pack of cigarettes. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, sir. Not with this lot.”
The clicking sound got louder and we could hear the beaters calling to each other. Behind us, Quinn was chanting into his radio. “Tell them not to get ahead of each other! Stay in the line!”
The cock pheasants began to cackle loudly as the beaters got closer. The birds fluttered up a few feet, then disappeared down into the blackthorn. I felt as if the entire woodland was gathering its strength for one convulsive effort.
A hen flew out of the woods and headed toward the birches. Malcolm fired his shotgun twice and missed both times. He swore and shouted to his loader as a cock pheasant appeared and glided toward us. His red wattles were a precise point of color against the gray sky.
Richard fired and the pellets made a slapping sound as they hit the pheasant’s wing. The bird fell quickly and hit the grass with a dull thump like a sack of grain. “Guard the sides! Guard the sides!” Quinn shouted to the beaters.
The birds came over the rise straight at us. I got lucky and brought down two males in a row, took the spare gun from Muldoon, and fired again. The other men were shooting at everything that darted out of the brush. The pheasants dropped before us, the wounded ones twisting and flopping on the grass. Behind us, the dogs strained at their leashes, but the women held them tight.
I saw a white duck come toward us and took my finger off the trigger, but George Riverton fired from a short distance and blew off the bird’s left wing. I glanced at Muldoon. Ignoring me, he loaded the second shotgun. Another duck flew out of the woods, then four more. They were flying so low that it was impossible to miss them. Richard pointed his shotgun like a man in a firing squad and hit two in a row.
The gamekeeper blew his whistle and everyone lowered their guns. Bluish-gray smoke drifted through the air and I smelled the harsh, sulfur odor of gunpowder. The women went forward with their dogs to get the fallen birds. A white duck lay about ten feet in front of us. Its blood glistened on the grass like little red jewels.
I pulled off the ear defenders and turned to Muldoon. “What the hell is that?”
He gave me a sly smile. “Looks like a duck, Mr. Bettencourt. Haven’t you ever seen a duck before?”
“That one’s straight from the farmyard. What’s it doing in the woods?”
Muldoon glanced around him, then lowered his voice. “Mr. Quinn trucked a cage of ducks up here and mixed them with the pheasants. They don’t know how to fly that well so they’re easy to shoot.”
I looked down the line and saw Malcolm and George congratulating each other. Richard stood alone, pissing on a beech tree.
“They’re not country people,” Muldoon whispered. “Weren’t raised here. Don’t know how to shoot. But they want to kill something, so Quinn fixes it that way.”
“Do they know it’s not a wild duck?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Probably don’t care.”
THERE WERE FOUR different drives that morning before we stopped in a clearing for lunch. The mother of one of the dog ladies had prepared the meal and it was good country food: barley soup and home-baked bread, apple turnovers and strong tea. Now that George and Malcolm knew that I wasn’t going to take their photograph, everyone relaxed. I had thought that pheasant shooting was another way for Richard to impress his friends, but I gradually began to understand what was really going on. For George and Malcolm, joining a hunt could hurt their political careers. They probably felt like Richard had fixed them up with a prostitute or taken them to a strip club in Soho. Now there was a secret between them, and secrets implied power and obligation.
There were two more drives that afternoon and Quinn mixed ducks into both of them. I didn’t feel compassionate about ducks, but I didn’t want to shoot them. The pheasants were used to the woods and they were good fliers, but the ducks didn’t have a chance. It felt as fake as a news photographer posing a shot.
It started drizzling on the last drive and then it was raining hard by the time the dog ladies hung up the dead birds in the game cart. My shoulder hurt from the recoil and I wanted a drink. When I gave twenty pounds to Muldoon, he smiled and touched his cap. “A pleasure to load for you, Mr. Bettencourt. You can shoot.” It was the compliment I’d been searching for all day, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
Everyone got into the Land Rover and Billy drove us back to the house. The windshield wipers slapped back and forth as the Rover skidded a little on the muddy road. Malcolm and George stared out the windows, but Richard kept glancing at me. I wondered if he was annoyed because I didn’t shoot at every bird that flew out of the woods.
Billy parked a few feet away from the front door, and Wallace came out with umbrellas. Richard touched my arm and we waited in the car while the other three men went inside.
“Having a good time, Nicky?”
“It’s nice to get out of London.”
“I was telling George about you last night. You really are a talented photographer. Have you ever thought about putting out a book of your best work?”
“Sure.”
“I have some friends in publishing. Assemble a portfolio, then give me a call at the bank when we get back to London.”
“Thanks, Richard. I’ll think it over.”
Raindrops exploded on the ground and rattled on the roof of the Land Rover. A favor had been offered and I waited to see what it was going to cost.
“I’ve told Miss Hedges to arrange the place cards for supper. You’re going to be sitting next to Julia again.”
“Okay.”
“Julia likes you, Nicky. You’re both in the same kind of business, really, dealing with war and disaster. If you stay in it too long, you get cynical and burned out. Don’t you agree?”
“It’s that way for some people.”
“I’d like Julia to become executive director of Hand-to-Hand. She’d supervise fund-raising and run the office in London. Perhaps you could put in a good word for me. It’s a step forward, really. She can’t spend the rest of her life acting like a refugee.”
Back in my room, I had a long b
ath, soaking in the hot water until my fingers got all wrinkled. Someone had left a bottle of cologne and a terry-cloth robe on the bathroom shelf. When I returned to the bedroom, Daniel was sitting in the easy chair, looking out at the rain.
“How’s it going, Nicky?”
“I’m all right.”
“Kill a lot of pheasants?”
“There were some ducks, too.” I explained what had happened during the shoot.
“That doesn’t surprise me. It’s just like Billy said, Richard takes care of the details.”
“So how was your day?”
“I borrowed a motorcycle from the garage and started riding around the estate. I bumped into Julia and we went on a tour together.”
I could see Daniel’s profile as he leaned back in the chair. The absentminded, distracted behavior he had shown on the train had completely disappeared. Now he reminded me of an athlete about to play some sort of game. His body was relaxed, but you could tell that he was ready to jump up and run forward.
“Together—on the same motorcycle?”
“That’s usually the way people ride.”
“Don’t forget, she’s Richard’s girlfriend.”
A bottle of Irish whiskey was on the side table; it was the same brand I had requested before dinner on Thursday night. Daniel stood up and poured himself a glass.
“You’re too sensitive, Nicky.”
“No one’s ever accused me of that before.”
Daniel poured me a glass of whiskey. The rain kept falling outside, splattering on the windowsill, and a cold damp smell filled the room. Whatever spirits had clung to the furniture from that house in Kilkenny asserted themselves, and I was aware of several generations of people reading a book in the chair or making love on the bed.
“Julia took me to a cemetery in the village. Lots of old gravestones.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“We talked until it started raining.”
“What about?”
“Her work. My work.”
“You talk about Richard?”
“No. Not really.”
“Maybe we should get out of here. Go back to London.”
He raised his glass and we clicked them together. “Don’t worry, Nicky. Nothing’s going to happen.”
BECAUSE OF THE RAIN we had our evening cocktails in the library. The shelves were packed with old books and there were leather club chairs next to reading lamps. It all appeared very solid and thoughtful until you checked out the book titles. Richard Seaton was interested in lots of things, but I doubt if he spent his evenings reading British Grain Diseases or the 1928 Parliamentary Debates.
I studied the painting by J. M. W. Turner over the fireplace. A brass label said it was titled Venice Sunset, 1843, and you could make out the domes of St. Mark’s Cathedral. All Turner cared about was light and color, a swirling haze of rose and dark yellow that appeared to glow with its own energy. After my second drink, I wanted to carry it around for inspiration.
George Riverton cornered me near a couch and gave me his theory about the Atlantic Alliance. He believed that America was like classical Rome and that Britain was like Greece. It sounded like he admired the United States, until I started to understand what he was saying. As far as George was concerned, Britain was art and theater and philosophy while America had a large army and good plumbing.
I was placed next to Julia at dinner while Daniel sat at the opposite end of the table between Richard and Digran Petrosyan. Digran didn’t talk to anyone. Whenever the servants brought out a new course, he stared at the food as if this was one more wall to climb over. We ate a fairly good pheasant stew, but the vegetables were awful. Some Brussels sprouts must have humiliated the chef when he was a child because he was determined to boil their descendents to a mushy pulp.
Julia wore a pearl necklace and a green silk dress. Malcolm Barthorp was sitting on her left and he told her about a recent by-election in Winchester. He had campaigned there for his party’s candidate and now a whole new group of people invited him to their parties. According to Malcolm, politics was about getting the right kind of exposure and playing larger roles; he sounded like a young actor who had just come to Los Angeles to get into movies. Then Malcolm and Jax began to discuss the sexual preferences of a female cabinet minister. Was she gay or straight or just a drab little nun? Julia turned away from them and I stopped buttering a roll.
“How was the shooting, Nicky?”
“Loud. Bloody.”
“But you liked it?”
“I’ve done it once. Now I don’t have to do it again.”
“Richard was talking about you before we came downstairs. He said you were very perceptive. I’m always on my guard when Richard praises anyone. That means they’re part of some plan.”
“Richard wants you to become the executive director of Hand-to-Hand. I’m supposed to tell you that it’s a good idea.”
“Is that what you actually believe?”
“I think it’s a waste of time to give advice to other people.”
“That’s never stopped anyone before.”
“What do you want to do, Julia?”
“Ever since I finished my training, I’ve gone from one emergency to another. I’d like to step back and take a break for a while, but not by sitting in an office and writing grant proposals.”
One of the candles went out and a thread of smoke disappeared up into the gloom. They served some port and Julia asked me about the farm in Bracciano. How did I like staying there? What was planted in the garden? Somehow I felt like I was revealing personal details about Daniel’s life.
“I went to Italy a few times when I was a student,” Julia said. “Then a few months ago Richard took me to Rome on a business trip.”
“Bet you stayed at a nice hotel.”
“No. Richard hates hotels, so he rented someone’s villa.” Julia glanced down length of the table. Everyone was listening to Richard talk about terrorism and oil supplies. “Every morning I’d wake up and find my schedule slipped beneath the door. I’d say that I wanted to go to the Vatican and the next day it would be arranged—driver and guide. The Italians would tell Billy what I did, Billy would tell Richard. When I met him for dinner, he’d know what paintings I liked at the museums.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a driver and guide,” I said. “In fact, I’d like two assistants to carry my cameras and open all the doors.”
“That’s what I thought,” Julia said. “It’s quite pleasant in the beginning. Then you start to feel like a child with a lot of anxious nannies. When they’re around it’s difficult just to buy some ice cream, wander down the street, go into a boutique and try on something silly that you know you’ll never buy. They’re always watching you.”
“Why didn’t you rip up the schedule and go off on your own?”
“I tried that. It was a complete disaster. I left early one morning and took a train down to Naples. Richard decided that I had been kidnapped by the Mafia. They were talking to the carabinieri when I returned.”
Billy appeared and gave Richard a fax. Apparently there was some kind of business emergency because they both left immediately. Without the host, dinner ended abruptly and everyone left the table. I saw Daniel glance back at Julia, but he didn’t approach her.
“I’ll tell Richard that you argued passionately that I should become executive director,” Julia said. “He’ll be very pleased.”
“Richard won’t believe you. I’ve never argued passionately about anything.”
We stood together in the hallway. “You think you’re a cynical person, Nicky. Sometimes I feel the same way about myself.” Julia nodded to the Rivertons as they walked past us. “But we’re both amateurs in this crowd.”
I WAS RESTLESS that night and didn’t feel like going to sleep. The Irish antiques were so carefully arranged that I was tempted to push the furniture into sloppy clusters. I drank two large glasses of whiskey, then put the gum boots and the rest of my hunting kit back
in the basket. I decided to go downstairs and give it back to one of the servants. Maybe I would find a lonely maid folding table napkins who wanted to talk.
At night, the hallways were like a real medieval castle: dark and empty with a draft of cold air coming from somewhere. Downstairs, I got lost twice before finding the hallway that led to the library. I decided to take another look at the Turner painting and headed toward a yellowish light that glowed through the glass panels.
I stopped and peered through the glass. Daniel and Julia were at the end of the room, sitting in front of a fire. Daniel was on a small couch, leaning forward with his hands clasped together. There was a direct sincerity, an openness in his manner, that reminded me of our conversations back in Italy. Julia sat on a straight-back chair about four feet away from the couch. She wore the dress from dinner with a black shawl draped around her shoulders.
I saw all this in a moment, a quick glance through a pane of glass. There were two sources of light, a reading lamp near the bookshelves and the fire itself. Although I couldn’t see the expressions on their faces, their bodies showed the unity of a single composition. If I had been in the room with a camera, I would have taken the photograph with the orange glow of the firelight slightly left of center. It looked as if Julia was pulling Daniel toward her.
I had always savored the intimate moments of strangers: a man embracing his wife at the Macedonian border, a young woman in Cape Town holding her lover’s hand. But I knew Daniel and Julia, and that made all the difference. Like a thief startled by a burst of light, I turned quickly and hurried away.
11 THE PARTY
I left the bathroom light on in my room, but the ghost came back with his creaks and sighs. Early in the morning I heard a sharp tapping sound, and I was half convinced that the dead Mr. Robinson was trying to send me a message. When I got out of bed, I realized that the tapping came from somewhere outside the house. Yanking open the curtain, I saw men pounding stakes into the grass. They were beginning to set up tents for the party.