“I don’t think I understand… the right person?”
“Do you believe in serendipity? Apparent coincidences that occur when the time is right?”
“I’ve never thought about it – at least, not until I read the journal.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Some things are meant to happen. And some people are ready to take the opportunities that come their way. You are one of those people, Joanna.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You, Joanna, are what I call a truth dentist. By that, I mean someone who is determined to extract the truth of the stories she reports, who will not be fobbed off, who will not let go. It’s all there, in the quality of your work. You notice the details.”
I was astonished. Ismene Vale, whom I had admired since I was twelve, was saying nice things about my work. Was she teasing or mocking me? Was she flattering me, in the hope of a generous write-up? No, neither made sense.
“I’ve spent my life attempting to be in the right place at the right time,” she said. “That’s important in your work, too, isn’t it? Great journalism happens when the reporter knows where to be, before the story happens. A great journalist would have known that a young teacher of unblemished reputation, who was very much loved by ordinary people, was likely to be executed for political reasons. A great journalist would have been on the spot, ready to cover the story – and perhaps one was. But it takes more than great journalism to interpret the meaning of the story. It takes the persistence to be a truth dentist and the courage to pull one’s own teeth. It takes the determination to keep going when you’re the only one who can see the point of the story. I think Julian was a great journalist.”
I said, “I’d be intrigued to know what happened to Anna. But I don’t understand why she would have given her personal journal to a publisher. As a manuscript it’s pretty raw. I’m not sure one could even describe it as work-in-progress.”
“It seems clear that she intended to use some of the material to write a play.”
“But why hand over the whole journal? If, as you say, it was handwritten, then presumably it was the original copy, perhaps the sole copy. And why didn’t she put her name on it? You know, I’d love to meet Frieda Bonhart and discuss this with her.”
“That’s impossible, I’m afraid. Frieda has Alzheimer’s. She’s really very ill and sees no one these days, except a nephew who manages her personal affairs and runs her publishing house. I discussed the matter with her when she gave me the journal. She said she recalled that the woman, who was in her mid-thirties, had seemed rather upset. But with the buzz and bustle of people who gathered around her after her talk, she had paid no attention.”
“I’d love to know what happened to Anna and I intend to find out.”
“I have a feeling that you’ll find it worthwhile.”
“Oh, and what about the song?” I explained how astonished I had been to find the song written in Welsh. Ismene Vale was intrigued. I said, “It’s a strange song. I speak Welsh.” I recited the words in English. “The spirit of the woods cries out to the spirit of the mountains, ‘The spring stirs within me and I long for the sun. The leaves open and fill the sky.’ The spirit of the woods cries in pain, ‘Where is the spring? I am old and weary with longing for warmth. I am old and weary with longing for the spring.’”
Ismene Vale said, “Those words remind me of songs I have heard in other cultures; very old songs. When one hears them, one feels as though they have come from the very heart of the earth.” She was silent for a few moments, looking out across her garden.
Then she said, “It is a mystery, isn’t it? For both of us now. Anna has crossed our paths. Her life has influenced my life. I feel she has more to teach me. Perhaps you will find that is true for you, too. Perhaps you will tell the rest of her story.”
“The only clues are the plays she talks about.”
“Frieda tried to trace Anna through her plays, after waiting a few months for her to get in touch, but she drew a blank. But with your professional resources, I expect you’d have a better chance.”
Like looking for a needle in a haystack, I thought. I said, “There are other clues. She refers to an academic career in Cambridge.”
“Not at the university. I’m afraid that has drawn a blank as well. Perhaps she disguised some of the details of her life, to protect her privacy in the event of publication.”
“I’ll make some enquiries, see if I can turn up any clues. In the meantime – this is rather embarrassing – I haven’t been briefed and I’m afraid I don’t know what it is that we’re to discuss.”
Ismene Vale turned her head to look out onto the garden and was silent for a minute or so. Then, her head still turned away, she said, “Have you ever seen a performance of Javanese shadow play?”
I vaguely remembered seeing on television some kind of Javanese performance in which strange, spidery-limbed puppets cast shadows to enact a story.
She turned to look at me. Her expression was serious and troubled. “It’s part of Javanese mythic culture, the story of the puppet master who controls people’s lives. To understand the culture and politics of Indonesia you have to understand the meaning of the puppet master.”
I felt my heart miss a beat. Could the story I was to cover be connected with the East Timor arms story?
She continued, “An omnipotent god comes to earth. He rules the lives of others with an iron hand, and no one can stand against him. It is a story about total control. The shadow play came originally from Hindu tradition, but it has a particular resonance in Indonesia.”
“I first went there as a young woman, during the 1950s. I began my career as an anthropologist. When I was twenty-one, I went to Jakarta for six months to study. I spent a lot of time in the islands, learning about the ethnic groups who live there.
“I fell in love.” Her eyes had a faraway look, and I knew I must remain quiet now and allow her to tell her story. “Munir was a university lecturer in Jakarta. He was older than I, by nine years. I knew from the first moment that I had found the friend for whom I had always been searching. I hope you have or will have that kind of love. There is no greater blessing in this life.”
I thought of Patrick and the way he had frightened me when the affair ended. I still felt deeply hurt and betrayed.
“We waited five years before we married. Munir was concerned about the difference in our ages and cultures. He did not want to deprive me of opportunities for a better life elsewhere. He wanted me to be sure of what I wanted. I continued to travel. My work took me to communities in Africa and South America. I began to write articles in professional publications.
“After we married, we set up home in Jakarta. It was towards the end of my time there that I wrote my first book, Voices, with material I had gathered during my travels. Munir and I had seven years of happiness together. Then things began to change. In the months running up to Suharto’s coup and the overthrow of President Sukarno, Munir was arrested.”
I cast my mind back to what I knew of Indonesian politics; the political ferment of the 1960s, when President Suharto seized power and killed a million of his own people suspected of being Communists. I thought of the old man’s iron grip on the country since then, supported by the West, with aid and trade.
“He was held for six weeks and released. Ten days later he was arrested again. Munir and I were idealists. We wanted to help people, through education, towards better lives, but we were not politically active. Nevertheless, he was accused of being a supporter of the PKI, the Communist Party. It was a terrible time. Things happened very quickly. While I was trying to get Munir released, I was arrested and imprisoned, without charge. I was three months pregnant when I went into prison. Ten days later I lost my child. I was held for a further seven weeks. My family and human rights campaigners over here secured my freedom, but I had to leave the country without seeing Munir. I did not see him again. The Indonesians would not allow me to go back. Munir was held without cha
rge or trial, and after fifteen years he became ill and died in prison.” Her story was astonishing. I felt sure there was nothing on record about any of it.
“No, I haven’t spoken of it before,” she said, as though reading my thoughts. “I am telling you all of this for a reason.”
A cloud had passed across the sun. I felt as though everything around us, all of nature, had become quiet and attentive to her story.
“The puppet master is driven by fear. He must control the lives of all those around him because he is afraid of what will happen if he allows them to be free. The puppet master is Herod, Stalin, Hitler and Suharto. He is the president of every multinational company that wants to rule our lives. He is the one who must always have more of everything, because nothing is ever enough.
“He is, you see, so very empty. Beneath the greed there is an unfilled space and an unsatisfied longing for love. But he cannot love himself, so how can he love others? You know, I believe that if we only knew the effect, the full, true effect of our hurtful actions we would change our behaviour.” I did not agree, but continued to listen.
She said, “It seems to me that feelings are at the heart of our existence here. We learn through our relationships, and what matters most is the effect we have upon others. If we only knew how every action of ours, personal and societal, made others feel, there would be far more understanding and a great deal less neglect and casual violence. That’s the point of my work, to bring to my readers an understanding of people who are very different from themselves. It’s quite simple, really. But yes, the story I promised you. Come with me.”
She led me into the hallway, across it and into the library. She opened a panelled cupboard and took out a small, rectangular parcel encased in plastic bubble wrap. As she undid it I held my breath, waiting for the sight of some ancient treasure, but what emerged was a video cassette. “Come with me,” she repeated and led me back into the drawing room.
Ismene Vale put the cassette into a video player beneath her television and switched on the set. A procession of young people crossed the screen. They were dark-skinned, some wore headbands, there were children among them, laughing and waving at the camera. They carried banners and were singing and chanting.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of gunfire and screams. As I watched, the young people began to run and some fell to the ground. I saw soldiers on tanks, armed with rifles, pursuing them and shooting them down. In less than a minute, the happy, peaceful scene had changed to one of carnage. I saw the young people running between gravestones, desperately looking for places to hide. I saw the soldiers pursuing them on foot, catching them and beating them savagely.
The picture was shaking. The person operating the camera was obviously crouching behind one of the gravestones. The camera lingered on a young man, his chest covered with blood, cradled in the arms of another man. The injured man was in the prime of his youth and vigour, but he lay silent, deathly pale, his eyes rolled back, as helpless in his friend’s embrace as a newborn baby. To this day, that image is imprinted upon my mind as vividly as when I first saw it.
The picture disappeared from the screen. I turned to Ismene Vale. “What was that?”
“This massacre took place three days ago in the graveyard of Santa Cruz Church in Dili, the capital of East Timor. A peaceful demonstration was taking place through the main street of town, in protest at the murder by soldiers of a young man who had taken refuge in a church. The military arrived in tanks and trucks. The demonstrators, who were unarmed, were gunned down. Hundreds of people were slaughtered.”
“This is incredible. What are you going to do with the film? Where’s the person who shot it? Were you there yourself?” The film was a revelation. Journalists were not allowed into East Timor and this was the first proof of the brutality of the occupying power.
“The man who shot the film entrusted it to me. He was arrested, and just before the soldiers took him he buried the film in a grave. Several hours later he was released and he retrieved the cassette. I was asked to smuggle it out of the country. I was travelling on a false passport, as an Australian tourist – I am still not welcome in Indonesia – and was less likely to be searched. How did he find me? Let’s just say I still have friends in the pro-democracy movement.”
“Where is the cameraman?”
“He’s still in Indonesia, but I can’t tell you what he’s doing there. Let us just say that he is completing his work. He asked me to get this film broadcast as quickly as possible.”
I said, “You know, you could take this to the BBC or Channel 4 News – or anybody, in fact – and name your price. This is the first hard evidence of what’s going on in East Timor.”
“I have already spoken to Channel 4 News.”
“Then, where do I fit into this?” My disappointment was immense. Suddenly, the front-page headline I had been imagining was being snatched away. “Wait, were you at the demonstration?”
“Yes, I was there.”
“Then what about giving me the exclusive newspaper story, telling what you saw and how you obtained the film, for us to publish in the morning?”
“That’s what I had in mind.”
“What arrangements have you made with Channel 4?”
“They’re sending a car to pick me up, with the cassette, at midday.”
“We’ll need to talk to Channel 4 right away, to get pictures from the film.”
“Oh, but you’ll use your own pictures, surely?”
“Our pictures? What pictures?”
“The pictures taken by Paul Huntingford.”
“Paul Huntingford – you mean he was there?”
“Of course. We met in Dili and went to the demonstration together. We didn’t know the cameraman would be there, and of course we didn’t know that this terrible massacre would take place. But Paul believed there would be trouble. A United Nations diplomatic mission was due and a protest march was being planned. He tipped me off. But I thought you knew all this. Didn’t Paul discuss it with you? I know he meant to. He must have run out of time.”
I felt myself beginning to blush.
Ismene said, “Paul’s under cover, with the resistance in the mountains. He will have been trying to get in touch with your foreign desk, but tension is heightened at the moment and telephone calls abroad could put his companions at risk. He may be unable to make a call until he leaves East Timor. Paul wanted you to write the story. He said you were the best reporter for the job. He asked me to ring your news desk and to say that I would brief you and no one else.”
As I sat, stunned, trying to take everything in, Ismene Vale reached further into her bubble-wrapped package and took out two rolls of film.
“Here are Paul’s pictures,” she said.
That evening Channel 4 News broadcast the footage of the massacre. Within twenty-four hours the film had been shown around the world. The morning after my meeting with Ismene Vale, my newspaper carried the front-page headline “Massacre in East Timor” over a story with Paul’s pictures and my byline, with the word “Exclusive” next to it. For the first time in years, I had produced a piece of work that I considered to be of real value. It was a turning point in my life.
I travelled to the office the next morning with a light heart and a bubbling feeling of anticipation. Usually my heart sank lower and lower during the journey to our offices. Docklands was such a gloomy place. When I had joined the Correspondent our offices had been in Fleet Street, just along from the law courts, in the hub of the City. It was a buzzy, vibrant place, where work was fun. Our current offices were in a building constructed for Napoleonic prisoners of war, and it felt like it, despite its conversion to shiny, high-tech modernity. We mourned the loss of our old “village”, with its familiar haunts and pubs and gossipy, clubby atmosphere.
This morning, as I walked through the entrance hall, past the life-sized portrait of Rex Sharkey the proprietor, those beady eyes that seemed to follow one felt a little less piercing than usual. As I crossed
the newsroom, colleagues called out “Well done, Jo” and “Great story”. Moments after I arrived at my desk, Milo came over.
“You kept very quiet about being a mate of Huntingford’s,” he said.
“I’m not a mate of his,” I replied.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Milo said. “You’d better decide which camp you’re in.” He stomped back to the news desk.
Alex said, “Fantastic, Jo. Well done. Huntingford obviously thinks highly of you. Wonder if you’ll get more opportunities to work with him.”
“Not if he continues to be a perfidious worm,” I replied.
Alex looked at me thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t close any doors there.”
I sent flowers to Ismene Vale, with a message of thanks. The next day she telephoned me. She asked if the foreign desk had heard from Paul. It had not, and neither had she. Nor had the organizer of the Indonesian human rights campaign in London, who was in contact with the East Timorese resistance. Ismene said Paul would undoubtedly lie low before making his way out of the country. To my surprise and delight, she invited me to supper the following Saturday.
This time, as I entered the poplar-lined drive to Ismene Vale’s home, it was with pleasurable anticipation. This time I was a guest, invited for my own sake. The door was opened by the maid, who invited me in with a warm smile.
“Miss Vale is in the drawing room,” she said.
I followed the maid into the room with the tall, wide windows. The flowers I had sent – creamy white lilies, irises, pale purple lisianthus and pink larkspur – were displayed in a cut-glass vase on the piano. As I entered the room, I again discerned the faint scent of gardenia and roses and something I could not place.
“Joanna, my dear, I’m so very glad you were able to come,” said Ismene, crossing the room and taking my hand. “My housekeeper has cooked us something simple and wholesome. I hope you don’t mind – it’s a vegetarian meal.”
The Greening Page 14