Under an Amber Sky

by Rose Alexander

  As they sat on a low, lichen-strewn wall, chewing on the fresh bread, smoked ham, and juicy, ripe tomatoes that Sophie had hastily packed before they left, a movement caught her eye. She looked up into the sky. The bird was far away already, and small with the distance. It hung motionless, watching. Ton had seen it also, his eyes following hers.

  ‘An eagle.’

  Sophie could tell from its flight, size, and height that it was a bird of prey but would not have been able to identify its species. As they watched it soaring – rising higher and higher, riding the thermals – another joined it.

  ‘A nesting pair,’ murmured Ton. ‘I wish I had my binoculars.’

  Sophie thought of the eagles Mira had written about. Maybe these were their descendants. It made her feel joined to Mira over time and space. They watched the giant raptors, graceful, masters of the sky, in silence for a while.

  ‘Why do churches have those eagle lecterns?’ It suddenly occurred to Sophie that she had often seen such things but never given them a second thought, had not even considered that an eagle might have some symbolic significance.

  Ton, watching the eagles, took a long drink of water.

  ‘It’s from the Bible. But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength,’ he said, his voice deep and low. ‘They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not be faint.’

  The words sent shivers down Sophie’s spine.

  ‘Isaiah 40:31,’ he concluded.

  ‘That’s beautiful.’ Sophie wondered for a moment whether to go on; would she come across as completely ignorant? ‘But what does it mean?’

  ‘There are a few theories,’ Ton replied, softly. ‘One stems from the belief that the eagle is capable of staring at the sun and that Christians are also able to gaze unflinchingly at the revelation of the divine word.’

  Staring at the sun, thought Sophie. Something that we cannot do, and which is therefore often compared with talking about death. And then she proved the veracity of that statement by not putting her thoughts into words.

  ‘Another theory is that the eagle soaring towards heaven is symbolic of Christ’s ascension.’

  Ton paused, looking down at the grass that grew at the foot of the wall where they sat. He kicked idly at a particularly tall clump.

  ‘But I prefer the version that says that the eagle is the bird that flies the highest.’

  Both of them instinctively looked upwards. One eagle was still visible, but only just, so high as to be no more than a dark dot in the huge expanse of the sky. It hung motionless, effortless, in the pure blue.

  ‘And closest to the sun, and therefore to God.’

  Sophie swallowed hard. ‘How do you know all this?’ she asked, her voice wobbling slightly.

  ‘I have a degree in theology.’ Ton stated the fact as if it were obvious. ‘I thought to become an Anglican priest.’

  Sophie took a moment to absorb this fact. ‘But you didn’t.’

  Ton shrugged. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Things changed.’ He shifted his position, jumping down from the wall and shaking out his legs as if to combat incipient pins and needles. ‘I changed.’

  They watched the eagles swoop and soar.

  ‘I became a photojournalist instead. Bravely and fearlessly reporting on the world’s wars and trouble spots. Palestine, Kosovo, Afghanistan.’ The snort of derisory laughter that Ton emitted indicated that choice now seemed inexplicable. ‘Noble, huh? Constantly searching for the truth and all that, blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘Why are you so dismissive?’ Sophie’s voice was indignant. ‘It’s an amazing job. Those people’s stories need to be told.’

  ‘But nothing ever changes, Sophie.’ Ton’s face was contorted with pain and frustration, his forehead deeply creased. ‘Each conflict seems more vicious and brutal than the last. Nothing improves; it just gets worse. Greed, corruption, violence – evil incarnate. Look at what’s happening in Syria now. Endless suffering for so many people. And so much of it in the name of religion.’ He paused and kicked again at the clump of grass. ‘How could I be part of that … that conspiracy?’

  ‘You’re not part of it if you’re exposing it to the world.’ She wanted him to understand that what he did – had done – was necessary and important.

  ‘The first place I reported on was Srebrenica. Two decades ago, almost to the day. I was very young, barely twenty. I saw what happened there. But there was nothing I could do to stop it. I didn’t help anyone.’

  The eagles were much closer now, hanging above them, watching. There must be mice somewhere in the undergrowth, or some other small mammal that would make a tasty meal.

  ‘If you had seen it, Sophie … If you saw it now … The graves – rows and rows and rows of green markers representing every Muslim man they shot and bulldozed into the ground.’

  Guilt rose in Sophie’s throat like bile. The Balkan wars had passed her by; she was younger than Ton and had only been a teenager, her thoughts rarely straying beyond home and school and holidays in Cornwall. She had to search her memory for any nuggets of information she had retained of those events.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She paused, hesitant. ‘It must have been hell.’

  ‘I had to go back there – I don’t know why, but I couldn’t seem to get it out of my head,’ Ton continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Afterwards, I came to Montenegro – it’s so beautiful here and it helped the first time I came. I thought it might counteract the nightmares.’

  Sophie screwed up her eyes in shared pain. ‘And has it?’ she ventured, tentatively.

  ‘Yes. A bit.’ Ton smiled at her, a thin, forced smile but one that reached his eyes, smoothing some of the creases from his brow.

  Sophie opened her mouth to question him further, but then shut it again. Ton’s demeanour was not inviting her to press him and anyway it struck her that anything she could think of to ask would be crass and intrusive. She began to pack away the remains of the picnic, hiding her face as she felt tears rise anew. Now she had another person to weep for.

  Ton noticed. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie.’ He helped her to stash the Tupperware containers into the bag. ‘About Matt.’

  She brushed his words aside with a dismissive wave. ‘Oh no.’ She half-laughed, half-cried. ‘These tears are for you.’

  Ton reached out and took her hand, then quickly dropped it as if it were forbidden. She would have liked him to retain his hold.

  ‘I didn’t tell you the reason I wanted to come today, specifically.’

  One of the eagles was diving, wings held close to its body, a missile with perfect aim, just as Mira had described.

  ‘It’s the anniversary of Matt’s death.’ The words blurted out. She hadn’t intended to tell anyone. Anna must have forgotten, or not realized what the date was. That happened easily here, where their lives were not dictated by the tyranny of calendars and times. ‘July – srpanj, or the harvest month, as they call it here. I don’t think they meant a harvest of unhappiness, though.’

  Ton let a small, sympathetic grin creep across his face. ‘You’ve learnt the local names for the months of the year. You’re making progress with your Montenegrin.’

  Sophie smiled weakly back in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Yes. I think I can only remember srpanj because it sounds like Prcanj, though. So it’s not exactly huge strides forward that I’m making.’ She laughed, ridiculing herself. ‘Anyway – that’s why I wanted to come here. I thought it … it was something to do.’ She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Apart from cry.’

  ‘It will get better. In time.’ Ton held out his hands and took both of hers. ‘Believe me, I know.’

  Sophie nodded. It seemed that he did.

  Back at the stone house, she reluctantly got off the bike. She didn’t want to let go; wished she could sit on the back of Ton’s bike, secure in his expert handli
ng, and hold on for ever.

  Chapter 21

  Lingering guilt about her mishandling of the Darko situation haunted Sophie over the next few days. Eventually, she realized she needed to resolve the matter if she were ever to let it go. She invited Darko to dinner, on the pretext of reading the penultimate letter.

  As she was preparing the meal Ton wandered in, his camera dangling by his side, tripod clutched in his hand. In addition to sorting out the garden, he was spending increasing amounts of time on his major passion, photography, and had produced some stunning results. Sophie was planning to get a series that he had done of the bay at different times of the day and night framed; they were so beautiful and would alleviate the ‘bareness’ that Anna had commented on. She was still waiting for Anna to produce her original artworks; she had received an unprecedented amount of commissions lately and had a backlog to work through before she could get to Sophie’s wish list.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Ton flung his equipment onto the table and poured himself some water. ‘It’s a scorcher today,’ he added, somewhat unnecessarily.

  Sophie bustled over to the table and began to clear all the things he had dumped there onto another surface.

  ‘Just making supper. You’re around, aren’t you? I’m making frittata but I can’t find the damn eggs.’

  ‘You must have mislaid them.’ Ton’s tone was so deadpan, his face so expressionless, it took Sophie a few seconds to see the joke. When the penny finally dropped, she collapsed into helpless laughter.

  ‘Sorry, Ton,’ she gasped, once she’d regained the power of speech. ‘That was truly terrible.’

  Ton grinned wickedly. ‘Made you giggle though, didn’t it?’

  ‘It did,’ conceded Sophie. ‘And thank you. I haven’t laughed much since … well, you know. I have found that it takes time to remember how to do it. I guess – I suppose it’s the same for you.’

  Ton nodded. ‘I’m all right really, Sophie. Just every now and again it comes back to hit me square in the solar plexus.’

  Sophie continued to look for the eggs. She felt that Ton was brushing away his experiences and the impact they had had on him, but perhaps it was his way of coping.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘plenty more absolute shockers where that came from.’

  He opened the cupboard where they kept the dry goods such as flour and pasta. Reaching inside, he retrieved something and turned around to Sophie. ‘Your eggs,’ he pronounced grandly, presenting them to her on flattened palms as if he were carrying them on a silver platter.

  ‘What on earth was I thinking of, putting them in there?’

  ‘Love can play havoc with the mind.’ Suddenly, Anna was beside them.

  Sophie flushed so bright red she was sure she could have acted as a distress beacon. Ton, too, seemed to blush though Sophie couldn’t imagine why and anyway she was so busy being annoyed with Anna’s tactlessness that she didn’t really process the fact. When was Anna going to drop the whole Darko thing? And now he was coming to dinner – Sophie hoped Anna wasn’t going to make it any more awkward than it was already going to be.

  In the end, she needn’t have worried, as Anna, Frank, and Tomasz had decided to go for pizza and ice cream at Porto Montenegro. Petar arrived in his taxi to deliver them there and it was just Sophie, Ton, Irene, and Darko around the table.

  ‘Delicious thank you, Sophie,’ said Darko appreciatively, once she had served up the frittata and salad and they were all eating.

  ‘We missed eggs in the outback,’ reminisced Irene, her eyes clouding with memory. ‘Hard to get hold of. Only a few breeds of chicken thrive in the climate; most have a tendency to drop dead in the heat. Humans, too, sometimes. Not the indigenous peoples Aboriginal people, of course, the newcomers. Silly idea for white men to try and live where they don’t belong.’

  ‘Tell us about it,’ urged Sophie. Irene’s stories fascinated her, each one seeming to involve greater ability to withstand hardship than the one before. The old lady’s bravery was inspirational.

  Irene launched into a tale of having to make an emergency landing in her plane and ending up in the midst of a saltwater-crocodile colony. They were all transfixed and, thanks to her, the meal passed easily. As she was making mint tea Ton, who had been listening as avidly as everyone else, turned his attention to Darko.

  ‘So – Darko,’ he began, his casual air belying the intense scrutiny of his piercing blue eyes. ‘Tell us a bit more about yourself. Your qualifications. Your aims and aspirations.’

  What was going on? Ton was behaving as if Darko were an enemy alien, needing to be interrogated.

  Hastily, Sophie bunged the mugs on the table.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve got time to hear Darko’s life story right now,’ she said, speaking far too fast. ‘Darko and I – we, er, we’ve got things to do.’ She smiled, over-brightly. ‘Shall we go and sit outside? It’s such a beautiful evening.’

  She could feel Ton’s eyes boring into her as she and Darko climbed the stairs to the garden door on the first floor. What on earth was wrong with him?

  It was still breathlessly hot outside and Sophie was sweating, from exertion exacerbated by anxiety, by the time they reached the chairs under the pomegranate tree.

  ‘Darko –’

  ‘Sophie –’

  They both spoke at the same time, stopped, and stared at each other. The cicadas strummed relentlessly.

  Sophie took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to say sorry. About Ulcinj – and perhaps, maybe, I don’t know if you were hoping for … expecting …’ She faltered and broke off. ‘What I mean is, I respect and value you so much – as a friend. I want us always to be friends.’

  Darko’s hair had grown again, the gorgeous coal-black curls reforming around the nape of his neck. He looked like the pre-Raphaelite God, his profile thrust into relief by the gathering dusk.

  ‘It’s OK. I understand.’

  ‘It’s just too soon,’ she blurted out. ‘I don’t know what I want, who I am – without Matt. It’s not you; it’s me.’

  The old cliché spilled out. Wasn’t that what men usually said to women and it meant the exact opposite? But in this case it was true.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sophie. We can still be friends, no?’ He smiled, a happy-sad lopsided smile. ‘But I hope you find someone, one day. You are too beautiful a person to spend the rest of your life alone.’

  Sophie bit her lip. ‘Thank you.’ She ran her hand over her eyes as if that would wipe away the past and enable her to see clearly. ‘But what about you? There must be tons of girls who’d give their eye teeth for a man like you.’

  Darko shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He gave a short half-laugh. ‘But I’m not that easy to please.’

  He held his hand out towards Sophie. ‘The letter? Shall we begin?’

  ‘Well, we’re all sitting comfortably,’ joked Sophie, trying to lighten the atmosphere and then realizing that her attempt at humour was completely meaningless to Darko, to whom a cultural reference about British children’s television would be lost.

  She handed him the almost weightless paper and sat back as he started to read.

  ‘Dearest Dragan

  ‘It is the end of the month of listopad, of leaves falling, and the bay is changing in that way that you, of all people who has spent his whole life here, is so familiar with. In the early mornings, the mountains are white as if dusted with icing sugar, their tips shrouded in fog. As the sun rises and burns away the chill of the night, wisps of mist float off the water, separating into delicate filigrees that part and reform into elaborate patterns in the air. I try to grab a handful, thinking that I can take its beauty and keep it, at this time in the world when so little loveliness exists.

  ‘Do the autumn mists come to you on Mamula island? I imagine so, and then I think that perhaps you cannot see the foggy mornings as you are locked in some windowless cell believing yourself abandoned by the world.

  ‘I’m s
itting in the garden, under my favourite pomegranate tree. We have eaten the fruit already. At least the baby will not lack vitamin C. If only I knew if the same were true for you. The doctor is getting more concerned; the baby has not moved position. It makes the birth more complicated and the doctor will need to be in attendance, which would not have been the case otherwise. I am trying not to worry, but in fact I feel sick all the time – at the thought of losing the baby, of her not being here when you return. For you will return; I know you will. I cannot face a future in which my child never knows her father.’

  ‘She sounds as if she is giving up.’ Sophie spoke her thoughts out loud, so quietly that Darko hesitated, as if not sure if she were talking to him or to herself. ‘However much she protests that she believes he’ll come back.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ pondered Darko, staring at the paper in his hand as if it could talk to him and tell him the answers if only he willed it hard enough. ‘She’s certainly working hard to convince herself. Perhaps there has been news, or maybe rumours are spreading about what’s happening on Mamula. It’s still nearly a year until the Italians capitulate in September 1943. The waiting must seem endless.’

  All the terrible things that could happen to Dragan as another year went by raced through Sophie’s head: the illness and disease, the gradual deterioration of mind and body as near-starvation took its toll. It was better that Mira didn’t know the full horror of it. Although even if she had, she would not have been able to write about it. The truth was that they couldn’t possibly know exactly what she was aware of.

  Darko began to read again.

  ‘Grandma Ilic draws in her breath sharply every time she sees me, eyeing my belly as if she has X-ray vision and can see my poor upside-down baby inside me. Interfering old witch – I try to avoid her.

  ‘I stopped to read what I have just written and I realize you will be shocked, my beloved Dragan. I am becoming grumpy and bad-tempered as I get bigger and heavier and clumsier – and lonelier. My longing for you is so great that it eclipses all else – apart from my anxiety over my child.