by Philip Bond
He’s somewhat disconcerted at her question… “We have a lunch date?”
“Matt,” she’s a world away… “Matt, yes of course forgive me, I’m ready. Where’re we going?”
Sensing hesitation… “If you have something else you need to do,” adding the conciliatory… “It’s okay.”
“My mind is elsewhere. Let’s go, I’ll tell you about it. Do you have a car or we cab it?”
“Ma’am, got no car and we don’t need a cab.” He pumps… “We ride in style.”
Although maintaining a high Canberra profile, the television network has surprisingly few local staff and as a consequence, a small car park.
Entering the car park, she stops, pointing… “That?”
“You got it.” He beams.
“Matt,” yes, a Harley Davidson fits perfectly… “I love it!”
“Yeah,” griping the handlebar in mount his black metal steed… “Hoped you would.”
Harry’s clothing creates interesting mounting moments.
Firing the engine into life, he opens the throttle, propelling bike and riders away from care and worry toward the distant hills.
Travel to anywhere in Canberra is relatively short. Eventually pulling into a parking area stolen from the surrounding beautiful lush gardens.
Spending some time browsing the surrounds, they enter the restaurant… “Hello,” the door opens… “I’m your host; the name’s Becci.” A bubbly twenty-something brunette, dressed in a mauve long sleeve top and black skirt… “This is Lisa,” gesturing… “She’ll look after you this afternoon. Hope you have an enjoyable time with us today. Have you reserved a table?”
“Yes, Leveaux’s the name, I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time.”
Pumped with pride, Lisa beckons… “Come with me, I’ll show you to your table.” Also twenty-something, she commences the rehearsed… “The principal dining areas are five rooms within the house, three bedrooms with original fireplaces. This structure is the overseer’s house and one hundred and twelve years old, the kitchen’s large in keeping with the period. The main house burned down during a nineteen thirties’ bushfire. The property is one of the original farms in the area, well before anyone even suggested a national capital. Built over a hundred years ago, the house stands as you see, among beautifully manicured gardens. The stained wooden verandah surrounding the house is decorated with exquisite lattice ironwork, strong healthy plants in old wine casks and what appears to be antique outdoor furniture.” Pausing to ask… “You’ve not been here before?”
“No,” seizing the moment… “My first time.”
Lisa stands, her hands clasped behind her back, slightly turning from side to side in a coyish fashion… “Great, come into the master bedroom and I’ll put you in the alcove.”
The house, its surrounds would not be out of place if painted in oil on canvass and hung in the National Gallery. Complete with house, tool shed, barn and storage buildings, the place still holds some of the old horse drawn cartridge and relics of a bygone era. Civilisation has slowly encroached upon the surrounding acres, reducing the property to a large suburban block. The National Trust rescues the house, resuscitating the surrounding gardens. Unsure just what to do with the magnificent building and gardens, the trust converted the old house into a restaurant.
Chivalry remains; he holds her chair. Lisa hands each a menu and retires.
He leads… “Sure beats being shot at.”
“I’ve a problem with trucks, you get shot at.” Shifting the topic… “Lisa’s good, didn’t let on once you’re a regular.”
Damn… “How’d you know; what tipped you off?”
“A guess,” she’s showing off… “that you now confirm.”
“Hell, I walked into that, you’re perceptive.”
Tact dictates she refrains for further displays… “Let’s help Lisa and order.” Besides, he’s gorgeous.
“Great thinking, babe, I’m starving.”
Ordering complete now a voyage of discovery… “Tell me the Matt Leveaux story, who is he?”
Matt casts his eyes out the window recalling memories, some of which are better left unsaid… “Born in Oakland California, to Marilyn Leveaux and Sherrod Graham. Mom’s Irish and French-Canadian descent, born in Roxbury, Massachusetts. She has a PhD in mathematics. Moved with her to Denmark as an infant, and then to Bahrain when I was four, attended a British private school until the age of seven.”
“So how come the marines?”
“Civil unrest, interracial relationships being taboo and racism.” Looking forlornly out the window… “Personal reasons plus wanting to serve my country.”
“Personal reasons; want to talk about it?”
He’s apprehensive… “Well,” he’s kept this hidden from all except a well chosen few. She’s different, relaxed, engendering trust… “There was trouble,”
The journalist jumps… “What sort?”
“Oh,” this is difficult yet important she know all… “Nothing I’m proud of.”
Intrigue bites… “What sort of trouble?” There’s something alluring, inviting, yet totally familiar about him.
“There was a girl,” with every other Petite Amie, Matt would never allow such detail. There’s a difference about her, a friendliness, an opening, a trust.
The journalist latches onto an errant word… “A girl?”
“Yeah,” sheepishly… “A Caucasian, we were both early teens.” Embarrassment paints his face… “Her parents filed a police complaint. I’s allowed to avoid charges by enlisting. I chose the marines.”
Sensing the sensitivity, Harry changes tact … “So, how long have you been a marine?”
“Thirteen years.” Leading the conversation, avoiding further explanation… “Preparing for life after the marines.”
“Life after the marines,” she jumps… “What do you mean?”
“I know how to handle cameras, especially the Sony.” A far more comfortable subject… “Crossed my mind a couple of times, using my military contacts, I’d travel the world’s hotspot in a different capacity.”
“Kosovo,” is Harry’s guess.
“The trouble there is,” with authority… “The UN is too lame in separating the warring factions.”
They move onto common ground… “Whether holding a notepad or camera, a journalist records events so that world opinion can say, enough is enough.”
Now he’s the inquisitor… “Sounds like, to me, there’s something stirring in you.”
“Yes,” she recalls earlier thought… “It’s been niggling at me in the back of my mind.” People enter the lives of another for a reason, a catalyst for change, remove complacency, challenge restraining belief systems and broaden life’s horizon. His question opens the thought process… “Maybe, something for the next life phase.”
“You in front of my Sony,” offering half seriously… “Now wouldn’t it be a hoot.”
Jest be the window onto a reality.
Suddenly, both go strangely quiet with wonder, until Matt interrupts the silence… “What about you? What’s the story behind the story?”
Usually circumspect about her innermost, however, she mirrors his feeling. Knowing there’s something welcomingly familiar and trusting here, a connection never felt previously. Regardless, she decides on the abridged version… “Well, mother’s English and father’s Austrian, both now dead. I have three brothers, one lives close by, in Bungendore. There’s a degree followed by a boring law firm job until I make a career jump to journalism. Got a break into television through a friend, and here I am.” Drawn to his physique, she studies his loose-fitting shirt revealing a long neck with bookend like neck-muscles leading into broad shoulders. Free from a masking ego allows a clear window into his soul. She interrupts the lust-filled surveillance… “Leveaux, is that French?”
“Naturellement, très bien.” Then to labour his achievements… “Français Canadien, Je parle aussi le danois et larabe.”
&nbs
p; “Wow, me too. German and some French that is; no Danish or Arabic.”
“Well, I’m learning Serbian.”
“You certainly know how to grab attention?” There seems a harmonising of vibrations between the two; everything seems so natural.
“Not sure about that, languages are part of my job. The President of the United States sends us places and it helps to communicate with the locals.”
“Serbian, sounds like you’re working on a travel itinerary.”
“Well,” pausing to glance thoughtfully out the window… “I’m using Uncle Sam to fund my new career in television journalism.”
Vivid images of chaos and devastation flash, bringing on the question… “What did you do before the embassy posting?”
He’s avoided any discussions or revealings concerning such things with most everyone. Not everything he’s done or been complicit could be acceptable to the average person. This woman, however, isn’t average. There’s a strange connection happening… “For these past twelve years, assigned to a Marine Radio Reconnaissance Platoon doing special ops. Just finished a deployment, this embassy posting is sort of R&R until my papers are processed.”
“And now, you’re exchanging the rifle for a camera?”
“Babe, it’s in the can. There’s a gig waiting at CNN.”
“Really!” Thoughts begin forming. This man exudes attraction, confidence and safety—something missing in her life to this point.
As the afternoon continues, each cement their thoughts on the other, feeling very comfortable and relaxed, as if each are reuniting. Suddenly, the impromptu seems right… “You could come to Sydney for a weekend?”
“I’d like that.” She’s different from his other conquests; those were entries in an address book identified by ratings. There’s something very different happening here and it’s palpable.
Probing continues… “Any brothers or sisters?”
“Yeah, one of each.” The sensation and connection is strong, allowing the expansive… “My sister’s a Baptist preacher, my little brother plays for Georgia Tech in the college football league.”
“You in the middle or the eldest?”
“The middle. My sister’s three years older, my brother’s five younger.”
“Babe,” with the cork removed emotion gushes… “You’re nice people, I don’t get to talk to nice people much, meaning I need to do it again. We have the telephone to make something happen; in about a quarter of six, I’m on duty. We’d best get moving.”
The afternoon moves faster than either wants; she also realises there are things still to do… “Matt, what time do you finish your shift?”
“Hey babe, this ain’t shift work, it’s the United States Marine Corps. I’ll call, promise.”
The day has been perfect for both, although not long enough.
On the return journey, she holds tightly to him, not because it’s a motorbike but because it’s him. She likes the feel of him, his smell, his physique, his personality most of all, his magnetic attraction. The ride’s all too short, pulling up at the apartment, her goodbye kiss short but not the embrace; it lingers.
*
The internal alarm wakes as normal, only to remember, she’s on holiday.
In following doctor’s advice and rest, she closes her eyes to dose.
Turning to the camera… “The column stops because, I am told, the sound of distant automatic weapons fire peppered with the occasional explosion, possibly rocket propelled grenades. The Legionnaire Captain instructs us to remain here beside the armoured vehicle while his scouts determine the situation.” Bulked up with body armour and with a helmet almost obscuring half her head, she clings to the side of the vehicle whilst talking to camera… “Blue-helmeted legionnaires scurry like insects darting from cover point to cover point, closing onto the source of the skirmish.”
Two quick explosions end the episode. She thunders… “Did you get that?”
“Sure did,” lowering his camera… “Had the point of contact in background while you did your thing to camera.” He instructs… “Stay low until the corporal gives the all clear.”
Turning around towards the point of contact… “Do not worry,” she’s jubilant… “I learn fast.”
The legionnaire corporal appears from in front on the armoured vehicle… “Nous passons maintenant!” One hundred and thirty-seven French legionnaires plus their journalistic attachment rise to continue the mission.
An armoured vehicle roars into life, keeping pace with the soldiers on foot.
Matt moves closer to Harry… “Just speaking to the captain; the village is about two clicks north-northwest. Those guys were the outer markers. Things might go hot without warning, use the natural cover and don’t walk in a straight line.”
Protective apparel restricts ease of movement, she carries minimal equipment; Matt labours video camera and specialised equipment vest.
Voicing the commentary… “The legionnaire’s mission is to gain entry to the village and set a defensive perimeter safeguarding the Muslim population from marauding Serbian militia. Captain Heurtier tells me the Serbs are in strength with armour, about twenty clicks to the west. If they get there first, it’ll be a blood bath.” Remaining focused… “Our story is the village and its people. We are going to report their story.”
The journalists walk precariously through the thinning trees among the legionnaires. Point signals halt. The five armoured vehicles use their sensors scanning the surrounds for heat emissions and hidden dangers. Harry and Matt crouch in cover behind trees.
Captain Heurtier announces… “Le danger est autour, être vigilant nous avons tous.”
The first legionnaire steps onto the field; away in the distance are village rooftops. Moving closer, the obvious structural damage is apparent. Matt lifts the camera capturing the legionnaires advancing onto the scarred and battle-damaged village. A lone woman emerges from one of the few untouched houses, shuffling slowly towards the legionnaires. Slowly, more town folk emerge as the blue helmets enter the village. Without fuss or fanfare, the legionnaire’s medical team begin triage on the battle-numbed villagers. Harry attaches to the medical team while Matt walks into the village-square capturing vision of the scars of recent conflict.
Armoured vehicles move into the village, taking defensive positions. More and more villagers step out under the greying sky, realising the blue helmets offer protection and not more rape pillage and murder.
As the legionnaires secure the village, Harry takes notes; Matt captures the vision.
Visual precedes sound; a MiG-23 screams no more than fifty metres above the tallest structure releasing four large canisters. Time slows as one canister punches into a house erupting into a fireball. Another shatters close to Matt igniting a second fireball. Harry has no time to react as the last two canisters hit twenty metres away, rolling a fireball over the medical team and patients.
Just then, Harry’s Nokia demands attention. Eyes flash open, she looks around, it’s her apartment bedroom, it’s Canberra, she’s dreaming.
Grabbing the irritating cellphone… “Harry Reisner.”
“Good morning, Harrietta. Obviously, I have woken you, yet some of us have been working for hours.”
She’s drenched in a cold sweat.
“About lunch today, make your way up to the house. It will be easier to meet you in the visitors’ gallery. Be there at 12:15 sharp. I will be with someone from the foreign minister’s office to guide you through the press accreditation process. We will join Anthony Waller for lunch at five past one, precisely.”
“Sounds good,” sleep exits… “12:15 it is then.”
As Wellington hangs up his telephone, images from the dream return yet, trying to recall the remainder; it seems the tape is clean.
On the ground, reporting from Kosovo with Matt her cameraman; is it a premonition or just random productions of a fertile mind? No matter, it’s time to get on with the day.
*
“
Ahh, Harrietta there you are.” Turning towards the familiar voice. Wellington pushes through the group, descending onto the gift shop, likening to a fearless lunge for the goal line… “Harrietta,” grabbing the elbow of another… “This is Salvatore Panetta. He is here to complete the paperwork for your press accreditation.”
Shuffling papers, the man frees his right hand… “Pleased to meet you, Miss Reisner; call me Sam.”
“I will,” greeting the new face… “If you forget what Wellington calls me, the name’s Harry.”
Interjecting… “Yes,” and uncharacteristically apologetic… “Well, my habit is to use everyone’s given name. May we get on with the accreditation?” They adjourn to an alcove, completing the paper work.
Satisfied with documentation, Sam exits. Wellington drapes the newly issued ID card around Harry’s neck as if a gold Olympic medal… “Let us be off. I am not going to keep the foreign minister waiting.”
Trekking towards the elevator to the dining room for strangers.
Sharing the dining room with only two other dining groups with most members preferring to be in their respective electorates for vigorous campaigning.
Wellington dispenses with the pleasantries first… “Thank you, minister, for letting us lunch with you.”
Always the gentleman, Anthony responds… “I’m pleased that you can join us today,” then a mischievous aside to Harry… “Wellington’s attempting press-ganging you into the Canberra bureau,” relaxing into his chair… “Lord knows, the gallery could do with gender redistribution.”
Time’s short, Wellington reigns in the small talk… “Harrietta is aware of the ground rules for today, so given your schedule, shall we order lunch?”
“Yes let’s,” Anthony likes his food and given today, he dines at another’s expense, is ravenous… “I’m having the fish.”
She buries into the menu as Wellington continues hustling proceedings… “I’ll also have the fish.”
The foreign minister’s question interrupts her menu deliberations… “Harrietta or Harry, which do you prefer?”
“Please, Harry.”
With an eye monitoring Wellington’s frustration meter, Anthony allows… “Aha, I thought so. As I say, I know this curmudgeon, his propensity to use given names.” Previously, he’s managed to rob Wellington of only seven precious minutes of his lunchtime information forages. Anthony continues the hobby… “It’s a trait that we share.”