They paused at a light, waiting for the cross signal.
“No, I saw the best one,” Mr. Bashiri said. “Again, it was an excellent photo. Just not in keeping with my theme.”
He went on to explain that his intention was not simply to contrast the wealth, cleanliness, and state-of-the-art equipment and procedures of Switzerland against the poverty, filth, and behind-the-times tools and methods in the Congo. He said that the Congo offered something that Switzerland did not, and that his intention was to show that as well.
“The difference between the two countries seems tragic, yes, but I also hope to demonstrate how the Congo is so much more real, and much warmer, than what we are seeing here.”
“Warmer?” Danny asked, wondering what could possibly be “warm” about the suffering of the refugees.
“Spiritually speaking. I always intentionally infuse most of my work with spiritual undertones and even lessons—though such things are not necessarily understood by everyone, at least not on a conscious level. This series is no exception.”
Danny braced himself for what Mr. Bashiri had to say, wondering what, exactly, he meant by “spiritual.” Was he talking New Age, transcendental stuff, Zen?
“To put it simply,” Mr. Bashiri continued, “I am using blue undertones here, as opposed to oranges and browns down there. Cool colors here, warm colors there. The reason I told you to keep the fire on the grill at the level of blue gas was because I am reserving the reds and oranges and yellows for later. The blue pool in the background today was fine. It was the bright red meat in the front, the orange flames flickering at the beef, that created the problem.”
“I think I understand,” Danny said. “The Zurich shots will be aesthetically pleasing, but it sounds like you intend for the pictures in the Congo to be more emotionally pleasing. Is that correct?”
Mr. Bashiri nodded vehemently.
“You see,” the man explained, “there is something very lovely but also very cold about the sparkle of this rich city. The refugees in the Congo may be miserable, but there is a realness to their experience that the people here lack. The refugees have more physical problems, yes, but there is also much less there to weigh down their souls.”
Danny was silent for a moment, trying to understand how anything about a refugee camp could be preferable to this stunningly beautiful European city.
“Perhaps you would have to be a man of faith to grasp fully the spiritual symbolism,” Mr. Bashiri added, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his pipe. “Even the doctors we spoke with today, did you not get the feeling that they are more at peace and happier with themselves down there than they are here? That what they do down there matters more to them than their high-paying jobs and fancy possessions here? It’s not just about being fulfilled through altruism or good deeds. I am convinced that when they are among the people of the Congo, even though the work is difficult and the conditions are miserable, the doctors have left behind most of what stands between them and their Maker and are drawn closer to the true heart of God.”
Mr. Bashiri paused at a tall, cylindrical trash can and began rapping the pipe sharply on the edge, knocking the ashes and burnt leaves into the receptacle.
“Now that you mention it, I did sense a real fervor in the doctors we spoke with.”
“That is their spiritual hunger, my young friend, eager to be filled at the well.”
Danny nodded, starting to understand.
“So now do you see? Through the warmth of the photos I will take in the Congo, I am trying to show, primarily, a biblical principle, that ‘blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall inherit the earth.’ This is how I give God’s messages to the world: through my photographs.”
Mr. Bashiri smiled self-consciously, looking almost sorry that he had brought it up.
“Please do not tell your magazine I said that, though, because their agenda is not a spiritual one. Probably, I should not even have told you, but with all of your hard work, I felt you deserved to know. Also, I thought perhaps you would understand what I am saying.”
Mr. Bashiri finished tapping out the pipe and they began walking again. From his other pocket, he produced a small, resealable pouch of tobacco, and slowly he used it to fill the pipe.
“Are you a Christian, Mr. Bashiri?”
“Yes, I am,” the man replied quietly, after a long pause. “And you?”
“Yes,” Danny said emphatically. “My faith is the most important thing in my life.”
Mr. Bashiri turned to look Danny in the eyes, considering for a long moment. Finally, he nodded solemnly and then spoke.
“I am not surprised,” he said. “In fact, now that you tell me this, I recognize that the light of God shines through you, in all that you do.”
“And in you as well, sir.”
“Just be careful, Mr. Watkins, that you do not confuse personal ambition with God’s plan for your life. That was a lesson it took me many years to learn, and by the time I did, it was too late.”
Halfway back to Westchester County, Jo decided to check her e-mail, hoping that Danny had been able to get to a computer and write, giving her more details about his trip.
She pulled out her handheld digital assistant and accessed her account, holding her breath as the list of incoming e-mails appeared on the screen line by line. Checking e-mail was usually the most fun part of the day for Jo, that time when she felt connected to Danny despite the distance between them. He couldn’t go online off and on all day the way she did and send little notes, but he made up for it by sending her a single, much longer e-mail almost every night. Danny’s replies were always a delight, filled with the kinds of visual descriptions that only a photographer could provide. Through his letters Jo could picture his apartment, his office, and much of Paris. He was loving the work but hating the separation from her, enjoying the city but missing his home country, loving the culture but merely enduring much of the food, especially the breakfast.
Now, sadly, there didn’t seem to be anything from him, which came as no big surprise, considering that he was busy traipsing around Europe and Africa.
There also wasn’t anything from the detective in charge of her case, despite the fact that she had just that morning forwarded him the most recent e-mail from the person she was starting to think of as “Toaster Man.” At least her grandmother had the connections to stay on top of things, but Jo missed the communication she was used to with Chief Cooper back home. He always returned her calls right away and did everything he could to help her in times of trouble.
Jo smiled gratefully at the thought. She would gladly trade all of NYC’s high tech resources and experienced manpower for just one small-town cop who actually cared.
As they reached the hotel, Danny felt disappointed and elated at the same time. The news that Mr. Bashiri wasn’t even going to consider including his photos for Scene It was devastating, of course, but once he understood why, at least he was consoled. And the man had been very complimentary of the pictures themselves. Next time, Danny would ask more questions and get more information about the overall thinking and planning of a shoot before setting out to prove himself as an artiste.
More importantly, he understood now why he felt such a growing connection between himself and the famous photographer. It wasn’t just about professional compatibility, it was about the Holy Spirit, who filled their hearts and their lives.
They were brothers in Christ.
Stepping into the hotel lobby, Danny wanted to find a quiet corner and sit and continue their conversation where it had left off, maybe urging Mr. Bashiri to explain what he meant when he said he learned his lesson “too late.” But the photographer was looking very tired, and he said goodnight, suggesting they meet in the café across the street for breakfast at eight in the morning.
“Okay, see you then,” Danny replied as the elevator doors opened and Mr. Bashiri stepped inside. “I’ve got to check something before I go up.”
“Very good. See you i
n the morning.”
The elevator doors closed, leaving Danny alone in the empty lobby. He strode to the front desk and asked if there were any messages for their room.
“Nei,” the man replied after checking, and then he said it again in English. “No.”
“Is there a pay phone somewhere nearby?”
The man directed him down the hall and gave him a printed sheet of instructions in several languages, including English, on how to use the phone with a calling card. Danny followed the directions step-by-step, taking a chance on dialing Jo’s cell phone number first. Quickly calculating, he realized that it was about 5:00 PM back home. She was probably out in her office, just wrapping things up for the day.
“Hello?” she asked, and suddenly Danny broke into the biggest grin he’d had in a long time.
“You have no idea how sweet it is to hear your beautiful voice.”
“Danny!” she gasped, and he could hear her excitement as well. Though they e-mailed every day, they hadn’t spoken on the phone in more than a week. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much he missed being connected in this way.
“Hi, babe,” he said. “Am I catching you at a good time?”
“Are you kidding?” she replied. “Anytime is a good time for you to call. I got your message. Where are you now?”
“Still in Zurich,” he said. “It’s going really well, but it’s a lot of work. We’ll be here again tomorrow, and then the next morning we leave for Africa.”
“Africa,” she said breathlessly, sounding very happy for him. “Tell me everything, Danny. I want to hear all about what you’ve done and what you’ll be doing.”
“Okay, but first, are you doing okay? I didn’t catch you in the middle of making dinner or anything, did I?”
“No, sweetie. I’m in the car.”
“Going somewhere fun?”
“Well, actually, I’m on my way back to New York. I’m going to stay at my grandmother’s estate for…for a little while.”
“Your grandmother’s? Why? What did the doctor say? What did the Bronx police say?”
“Oh, I’ll e-mail you with all of that. Gran just wanted me to come for a visit. Right now I want to hear about your trip. Tell me all about it. Start at the beginning.”
Leaning as far as the wire would stretch, Danny hooked one foot under the side of a nearby green velvet wingback chair. Sliding it toward him, he finally grasped it with his hands, spun it around, and got comfortable.
“Let’s see,” he said, reviewing the past 24 hours in his mind. “This whole thing started just yesterday, when my friend Luc invited me to dinner…”
Jo listened to Danny’s adventures, relieved that it had been easy to deflect the conversation back to him. Really, it just felt so wonderful to hear his voice and share in his excitement and forget all about her own problems for a while that it was almost a relief to pretend that nothing was wrong on her end.
As Danny talked, Jo could tell that this trip really was the chance of a lifetime for him. It sounded as though the photographer, this Kalunga Bashiri fellow, was turning into a mentor and friend, and that the whole trip would end up greatly enhancing Danny’s photography and his career.
The more he told her, the more Jo knew that she wouldn’t destroy this opportunity of his for anything. At some point down the line, of course, when he finally learned about what had been going on back home at this time, he would be angry with her that she had kept him out of the loop. But as he talked now about all he was experiencing, she decided that her silence now and his resulting anger later would be worth it in the long run. If he knew what was going on here, and that her life was in danger, he would hop on the next plane home—and she couldn’t let him do that. The price was too high.
Besides, if he really could have been of significant help to her in some way, then she might consider telling him what was going on. But the truth was, she already had the considerable resources of her grandmother and her parents, a staff at her fingertips, and round-the-clock bodyguard protection. What could Danny give her that she didn’t already possess? There was nothing he could bring to the situation except comfort and love, and the need for them wasn’t worth the sacrifice he would have to make to give them.
Jo leaned back against the leather seat and looked out of the window, loving the familiar cadence of his voice, growing misty-eyed just picturing him in his excitement, gesturing in all of those cute ways he had and even drumming absentmindedly with his feet against the floor.
He had worked so hard to get where he was. He deserved this.
“Wait, you have to get how many shots?” she asked now, laughing. Danny always had turned into a big baby at the doctor’s office.
“The number keeps growing!” he exclaimed. “Tonight at the gala, somebody else told me to throw in cholera and typhoid. By the time I get on that airplane, I’m going to feel like a pincushion!”
Smiling, Jo closed her eyes and listened to his voice and tried to imagine that she was there with him now. The thought warmed her heart and made all of her current problems seem very far away indeed—at least until he had to hang up.
“This is the only pay phone around,” he told her regretfully, “and there are two other people sort of hovering off to the side, waiting to use it.”
“I understand.”
“I probably need to get on to bed, anyway. It’s late here.” He went on to tell her that he loved her, and that he’d call again in a few days.
“If you can’t reach me on my cell, try my grandmother’s house,” she replied, waiting as he grabbed a pen to write the number down. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying there.”
As they said their final goodbyes and hung up the phone, Jo felt a warm rush of love spread from her head to her toes. She leaned her head back and watched the world go by, allowing that warmth to hold the realities of her own situation at bay for the rest of the drive.
14
Danny was sound asleep, dreaming of Jo, when a loud “thunk” woke him up. Confused, he reached for the bedside light and flicked it on, surprised to see a half-dressed Luc sprawled across the hotel room floor.
“Whoa!” Danny cried, swinging his legs over the bed and sitting up. “You okay, man?”
“Dah-neeee!” Luc replied, rolling over onto his back, completely drunk. “Why is ze room spinning around in ze circles?”
Taking a deep breath, Danny ran a hand across his face and then reached down to help his friend. Apparently, too much alcohol made the Frenchman sound just like Pepé Le Pew.
“You’re drunk, buddy. Can you sit up if I help you?”
Together, they managed to get Luc from the floor to the bed. There, he laid across the top of the covers in only his tuxedo pants and cummerbund.
“Where’s your shirt and jacket and tie?” Danny asked, surprised that he didn’t see them anywhere in the room.
“In the bathroom, I think. I hung them on a hook on the back of the door.”
Grunting, Danny pulled slacks on over his shorts and padded down the hall to the shared bathroom. Sure enough, there he found Luc’s clothes, hanging messily from the shower head. He carried them back to the room and closed and locked their door.
“Is there anything else you lost along the way?” Danny asked, patting the inside jacket pocket of the tuxedo, relieved to find Luc’s wallet and cell phone tucked safely in there. Thank goodness his clothes hadn’t hung in the bathroom all night, where anyone could have rifled through them.
“Non,” his friend said, raising a hands in front of his face and studying them as though they were foreign objects. “I have lost nothing but my pride.”
Wearily, Danny helped Luc off with his shoes, and then he moved the trash can next to his bed.
“If you need to puke, the trash can’s right here, okay?”
Danny then climbed back into his own bed and turned off the light, desperate to slip back into sleep, but Luc wasn’t having any of it.
“Do you sink I am
a bad person, Dah-nee?” he asked, his accent heavy and slurred.
“No, of course not.”
“Some people must think I am,” he continued. “They keep throwing money at me and asking me to do things. Terrible things.”
Danny opened one eye, looking over at his friend in the dark.
“What happened?” he asked. “Did you have problems with the Dutch girl?”
“Non. She was mignonne comme tout. It was all the phone calls, the interruptions. She finally left me at the bar and told me to call her when I was ready to give her my full attention.”
Danny smiled, understanding how she must have felt, remembering all of the calls Luc had taken today during the photo shoot.
“Who keeps calling you? What do they want?”
Luc didn’t answer Danny’s questions, though he did keep talking.
“You cannot trust a person in this world, you know? Even the people you think you should be able to. Even the ones who are closest to you.”
Danny didn’t reply, torn between wanting to get back to sleep and wanting to know what had made his friend so upset.
“Watch your back, my friend, is all I can say. Watch…your…back.”
Danny exhaled slowly, wishing Luc would either come out with it or be quiet so he could go to sleep.
“Why should I watch my back, Luc?”
There was no reply for a long moment, and then the snoring began, loud and long. Danny put the pillow over his ears, counting the minutes until Luc went back to France and he could get some sleep.
Alexa was just slipping the black cap over her hair when she heard rustling out in the hallway. Oh, great. There were soft voices and lots of footsteps, and she had a feeling that the old lady’s granddaughter was back from wherever she had gone for the day. Alexa had asked why Jo wasn’t at dinner, but all the old lady said was that Jo was out and she’d be back later.
That time must have come. Now Alexa would have to wait even longer to get out of there. She moved more quietly, tucking every loose strand of hair under her cap, wondering when the coast would be clear for her escape. It was early still, not even 8:00 yet. But this time she really couldn’t wait until everyone was asleep to make her getaway.
Elementary, My Dear Watkins Page 17