Secrets From the Past

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  At one moment, he glanced at me, and asked, ‘Have you ever let another man eat food from your plate? Or, as in this instance, a dish?’

  I shook my head, endeavouring not to smile, detecting a hint of normality surfacing – his jealousy about unknown men. Actually, nonexistent other men. ‘No,’ I said at last.

  He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, and murmured, ‘Good. It’s very intimate.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you mind? That I’ve always done it?’

  ‘No, I don’t … and listen, it’s a privilege only you enjoy.’

  He gave me a funny little smile, sat back comfortably in the chair. ‘I don’t know exactly why, but I’ve always loved this place. Perhaps because it smacks of another era, from a time gone by.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. I feel the same way,’ I said, thrilled that we were actually having a proper conversation, one that wasn’t stilted or awkward. ‘My mother told me that the original eighteenth-century décor had been carefully preserved; that Florian’s was one of the first places in Europe to serve coffee, when it was considered an exotic drink.’ I looked around. ‘It does have a special warmth. It’s very welcoming, sort of quaint.’

  ‘I loved your mother’s bits and pieces, as she called all that information she had tucked away at the back of her beautiful head,’ Zac remarked. ‘She was such a lot of fun.’

  I nodded, smiled at the memory of her. ‘She used to say she was a fountain of information nobody needed or cared about.’ I picked up my glass of water, took a swallow, gazed at him for a moment.

  I saw him clearly, as he was now, and there was something of the old Zac about him this afternoon. His colour was better, his eyes unexpectedly brighter, and the sharp angles of his face had softened. He was obviously relaxed, and it was visible in the way he held his body, as well as in his face.

  Suddenly, he said, ‘You’re staring at me, Pidge. Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, something is good,’ I responded quickly. ‘I think you’re much less uptight, and it shows. Ever since I arrived in Venice you’ve had strict control of yourself, as if you were afraid to be you, to be who you really are.’

  ‘I know, and I’m still in control.’

  ‘But you’re not so rigid this afternoon.’ I eyed him carefully, and a smile broke through when I added, ‘It’s as if you have loosened the tight rein you’ve had on yourself, and decided to trust me.’

  ‘If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have asked Harry to persuade you to come!’ he exclaimed, giving me an odd look.

  ‘He didn’t have to do much persuading.’

  ‘I would’ve been in a mess if you hadn’t agreed,’ he said after a moment, now gazing at me intently. ‘I’d have been lost. Your presence is very soothing to me, Pidge, even healing. I really believe I need you to help me get through this difficult period.’

  ‘I think so too,’ I agreed, and went on carefully. ‘How did you know you had to get out? Did something happen? Go wrong? Or did Harry decide to pull you out? He’s not discussed it with me, nor has Geoff. They sort of left me in the dark, actually. Are you able to talk about it? Or would you prefer not to? Is it too hard?’ I asked, the questions tumbling out of me. Questions I’d wanted to ask for days.

  ‘I can talk. I want to talk about it, and about other troubling things. That’s what I told Harry – that you’re the only person who would have a clue, would be able to properly discuss the front line and war reporting. Because you’d been there, seen it all, been as heartsick and as numb as me at different times.’

  He paused, shifted slightly in his chair, and continued speaking in such a low voice I could hardly hear him. I leaned closer, not wanting to miss a word.

  ‘I feel so rotten at times, Serena, so devastated I can hardly stand myself. There’s a remorselessness about war that is chilling. And it kills the soul. Yet I’ve gone back time after time, and I don’t know why.’

  ‘Because you had to, Zac,’ I answered. ‘Because of your honesty and humanity, and the need you have to tell the world the truth about brutal regimes oppressing people, and to expose the terrible suffering in war zones. You’re a photojournalist, as I am, and that’s what we do.’

  I reached out, took hold of his hand. ‘Except that there comes a time when we can’t do it any more, because we’re too battered, exhausted and disillusioned. Those are the reasons I stopped, and they’re yours.’

  He nodded, squeezed my hand tightly. ‘Something happened one day, and I just couldn’t stand it any more …’ Unexpectedly, tears filled his eyes, and he blinked, cleared his throat. ‘I can’t discuss it, go into details, not at this moment, mostly because we’re here at Florian’s. I know I’ll cry …’

  I continued to hold his hand. ‘I understand. You don’t want to weep in public. So we’ll save it for later. Whenever you want. Anyway, from what I gather, you told Harry you wanted out. Am I correct?’

  ‘Yes. I had to leave the front; I knew it was the time I had to go. I didn’t feel well, physically or mentally, and I realized I needed help. Harry said he’d come in and get me, and I told him not to. He suggested Geoff, and I agreed at once. And fortunately for me, so did Geoff. He came in within twenty-four hours, and he never flinched.’

  ‘He’s a good guy. You seemed startled earlier, when he said he wasn’t going back to Pakistan.’

  ‘I was for a split second, and then I knew he felt like I did, burnt out. And also mentally bludgeoned by what he’d witnessed.’

  ‘You asked him what he was going to do, once he’d left war photography, and he didn’t really have an answer for you. But it troubles you, doesn’t it? You’re facing the same dilemma,’ I suggested.

  A small sigh escaped. Zac nodded. ‘Yep. I am. We’re in the same boat, he and I. Totally at a loss, I guess.’

  ‘I think you can only deal with that when you are feeling better, Zac, when you’re back on your feet. I know you have a lot of troubling stuff to deal with, to get out of the way first. When the time comes, you’ll understand what you want to photograph, what kind of life you want to lead.’

  ‘I guess so. But sometimes I wish I had a hobby, something I could throw myself into …’ He let his voice trail off, his eyes sad.

  ‘You need a release from war coverage, something that takes your mind off the conflict, the blood and bullets, dead troops, maimed civilians caught in the crossfire. We all do, actually. All that destruction is mind boggling.’

  ‘Do you have a hobby these days, Serena?’ he asked, sounding interested.

  ‘There’s the biography I’m writing about Dad; that’s not exactly a hobby, but I am enjoying it.’ I laughed a little hollowly, ‘Well, most of the time. The thing is, I really do want to continue writing. But to be honest, I wish I could find another occupation, or a hobby, something to throw myself into. Jessica loves sailing, mucking around on boats, and she always has.’

  ‘That’s what Marie Colvin does; that’s her passion when she’s not covering wars,’ Zac told me, referring to the famous war correspondent we both knew. ‘I love being on boats myself – maybe that’s something I could try eventually … as a pastime.’

  ‘You once told me that you used to go sailing with your father, in Upstate New York, and—’

  ‘That’s right!’ he exclaimed, cutting across me. ‘We had a log cabin near the Finger Lakes. In fact, Dad still has it. Anyway, we all used to go up there for weekends, but I was the only one who went fishing with Dad.’

  I smiled, pleased to see that fleeting glimpse of pleasure crossing his face as he said this. It was obvious he had good memories about those days of his youth.

  We lingered at Florian’s, enjoying the friendly and familiar surroundings; escaping, in a sense, into the past, when we had been happy together. We both ordered tea, and went on talking about all kinds of things. This was the first time in the five days that I had been here that he had been as normal as this, and it pleased me. It was a good sign.

 
; All I wanted was for Zac to get better. In my own way, I loved him. We had once been so close it was hard not to have feelings for him. But at the same time I realized I could never become romantically involved with him again. I had grown wary, cautious and self-protective over this past year.

  There was no viable future for us together, despite our attraction for each other. That was still there, I was very well aware of this, and it wasn’t just me. Zac felt it too, I was sure, and he had swiftly moved out of my parents’ bedroom in the bolthole, which we had shared for the first couple of nights. He had not said a word, and neither had I. And I understood why he had gone back to one of the other bedrooms. Close proximity was unnerving.

  Helping Zac to get better was one thing, falling under his fatal spell was something else altogether. What if he went back to covering wars? And he might feel the compulsion to go to bad places, where disasters were constant, or because he wanted to put himself in danger for the thrill of it. Or to test himself. That could become a disastrous cycle, one I wanted no part of at all.

  Immediately, I pushed this unacceptable idea to one side. I knew he fully understood he could never go back to the battlefield. He would have to find a different area of photography to focus on, one which was much less dangerous.

  It was almost as if he had read my mind when he said, ‘I guess I could follow in your father’s footsteps.’

  I was puzzled. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘For the last few years of his life, Tommy took pictures of presidents, politicians, royals, celebrities of all kinds. Maybe I could do that. What say you?’

  Ready to seize on anything that was not physically dangerous for him, I exclaimed, ‘That’s brilliant! Dad enjoyed shooting those pictures.’

  ‘The thing was, he managed to get pictures of them in funny, amusing and unusual poses. He obviously persuaded them to do stuff they didn’t normally do. That’s what made the photos so great.’

  ‘You could do it, Zac, you’re a natural to step into his shoes,’ I told him, and I meant this.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ He paused, looked worried when he went on, ‘You don’t really want to shoot a series on world famine, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest. It interests me, and yet it would mean facing a lot of women and children suffering, and that’s heartbreaking, as you well know.’ I made a face. ‘On the other hand, people should be reminded about how much famine there is around the world.’

  He nodded, but his face was glum, even slightly disapproving, I thought.

  ‘Like you, I’m looking for something to do. I have the book to finish about Dad’s life, and then I might work on a photographic book that Tommy started but never completed. Cara and Jessica found quite an extensive archive at the house in Nice. Loads of photographs Dad had taken over the years.’

  ‘Hey, that would be wonderful!’ He sat up straighter, a smile glancing across his face. ‘It would be another great tribute to Tommy.’

  ‘That’s what my sisters said.’

  Zac settled back, drank his tea, and after a few moments of contemplation, he said, ‘Can I ask you something, Pidge?’

  ‘You can ask me anything.’

  ‘Why is it that some combat photographers come out done in, shattered like I am, and others don’t?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We’re up front with the troops, and just because it says PRESS on our helmets and flak jackets it doesn’t mean we’re not going to get shot at. We’re often targeted because we are the press. Let’s face it – we’re in the trenches with the troops. Some photographers handle that well. They can seemingly cope forever. Others just can’t.’

  I shook my head. ‘Let me correct myself, most of us can’t cope. Not in the end. Because we’ve witnessed too much horrific stuff. And you know that a lot of troops return home suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, as well as some combat journalists.’

  ‘I don’t have PTSD.’ He looked at me intently.

  ‘But you are shattered, Zac. You will get better, though.’

  ‘I hope to God I will.’ He glanced around Florian’s, almost as if to reassure himself where he was. ‘We get hooked on war, don’t we?’

  ‘We do. All of us. That adrenaline rush is very addictive. But the smart ones get out. Eventually. And stay out, if they know what’s good for them – lead safer lives.’

  He was silent for a moment or two, then he leaned closer, said quietly, ‘I can’t go back, Serena. Whatever you might think, I just can’t hack it any more.’

  A surge of relief ran through me. I was convinced he meant every word and that he would not change his mind.

  We had been sitting in Florian’s for hours, and when we finally left it was early evening. We walked back to the bolthole in silence. But that had never been a problem for us; our silences were companionable.

  I glanced around, feeling relaxed. Venice had that effect on me. The piazza was much less crowded because of the hour; the wind had dropped and it was a pleasant evening.

  I looked up. The sky had changed, had deepened to a soft pavonine blue, and the fading light bathed everything in a hazy softness, as if a gauze veil had been draped over the ancient buildings.

  Venice was calm, seemed otherworldly in the twilight. I had always loved this place from my childhood, and it held happy memories for me. I realized it was a good place for Zac to recover, and I was happy Harry had thought of putting him in the bolthole.

  At one moment, Zac took hold of my hand when we were in the middle of the square, swung me around to face him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What happened to me? To you? To us, Serena?’

  I was silent for a second, then I said, ‘Life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Life got in the way. It changed you, it changed me.’

  ‘Do you mean it also split us up?’

  ‘Sort of, yes. We’re victims of Life, and all the nasty tricks it plays on people. Life frequently comes up to hit you in the face.’

  ‘Can it be repaired?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our relationship?’

  I stiffened involuntarily, and did not answer at first. Finally, I said in a low, noncommittal voice, ‘I don’t know … I’m not really sure, Zac.’

  He nodded.

  We started to walk across the square again. As we approached the street where the bolthole was located, he said in a soft, loving voice, ‘I still have feelings for you.’

  When I did not respond, he asked, ‘Do you?’

  ‘Certain feelings, yes. However, the most important thing is for you to get better, Zac. Only then can we think about our past relationship.’ I was careful not to mention the future.

  ‘Understood,’ he muttered.

  We went on up the street in silence.

  FIFTEEN

  When the noise first started and I woke up with a start, I thought, for a split second, that someone was banging a nail into a wall to hang a picture. Then, as it grew louder, and more intense, I decided it must be filtering in from outside. But no, it wasn’t.

  The noise was actually coming from the living room, just beyond my bedroom door. When I realized this, I leapt out of bed, snapped on the light, struggled into my robe and slippers and ran to the door. I yanked it open to find myself facing a room full of blazing lights. Every lamp was turned on.

  Much to my shock and horror, Zac was standing in the centre of the room in his pyjamas, looking demented, angrily bashing the television set to pieces with a kind of manic concentration. And what was that he had in his hands? A frying pan? I was astonished. I didn’t even know we had one. Pushing this irrelevant thought to one side, I rushed toward him, exclaiming, ‘Zac! Zac! Stop it! Stop doing that! At once! You’ll wake Claudia. She’ll be up here any minute wanting to know what’s going on.’

  I took hold of him firmly, put my arms around his rigid body. He stared at me blankly. I saw how glazed his eyes wer
e, and his face was wet with tears.

  ‘Oh, Zac,’ I whispered against his shoulder. ‘You’re suffering so much, I’m so sorry. I’ll try to help you in any way I can. Come on, give me the pan.’

  He pulled away from me, gaped at me once more, almost angrily now, and then, with something of a grand flourish, threw the copper pan onto the floor and made to walk away from me.

  Before he could take one step I shrieked, ‘Stop! Don’t move!’ I had just noticed he was in his bare feet. ‘You’ll cut your feet on that mess,’ I warned him.

  The floor where he stood was strewn with twisted metal, broken glass, wires; all the innards of the television set. I had an unexpected flash of Richard Burton as Shannon, the defrocked priest, in the movie The Night of the Iguana, cutting his feet to shreds when he stepped on broken wine bottles near his bed.

  ‘I’ll get your shoes,’ I said, hurrying into Zac’s room, shouting over my shoulder, ‘Just stay there. Don’t take a step.’

  He didn’t.

  When I came back he was still standing in the same spot. He did not say anything to me, nor did he look at me; his gaze was directed at the floor and the detritus surrounding him, as if he was surprised to see it scattered there.

  Walking carefully, I pushed bits and pieces of glass and metal to one side with my feet, until I’d made a small space in front of him, where I placed his loafers. ‘Slip your feet into them,’ I instructed.

  Once he had done so, I guided him over to the sofa, forced him down onto it and took the seat next to him. He appeared to be in a weakened state; he fell back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

  I sat holding his hand, not sure what to do to help him, other than to keep him calm. I had no idea what had brought this on. Had he been watching the news? Following reports of the Arab Spring, the various uprisings spreading through the Middle East after a young Tunisian man, Mohamed Bouazizi, had set himself on fire last December, dying in hospital in January?