SEVEN
The scream shattered her nightmare.
It echoed around the bedroom and seemed to pierce her brain, almost as if she herself were screaming. Nicky sat up with a jerk, instantly wide awake, her face and arms bathed in sweat. She tilted her head and listened, blinking as she adjusted her eyes to the dimness of the room.
There was no sound except for the faint ticking of the clock on the bedside table, the rustle of the leaves on the tree outside the window as they brushed against the panes of glass.
Had she herself screamed out loud during her frightening dream? Or had it been someone else? Someone outside? She was not sure, and just to make certain she climbed out of bed and went to the window. She looked out. The sky was dark, cloudless. A full moon was slung high above the old stables, and it cast a silvery sheen over everything in the yard, throwing into focus the cypress tree, the old wheelbarrow planted with flowers, the garden seat, the flight of steps leading down into the orchard. But there was no one out there, so it was not possible that anyone had screamed. Except for her, of course.
A small shiver passed through Nicky even though it was an exceptionally warm night. Turning away from the window, she went back to bed, troubled by the nightmare that had so frightened her it had brought that scream to her lips. And woken her up. Slithering down, she pulled the sheet around her bare shoulders, and tried to go back to sleep.
But she had little success, and when she was still wide awake after half an hour she slid out of bed, slipped into her cotton robe and went down to the library. After turning on a lamp and the television set, she curled up on one of the sofas, deciding that since she could not sleep she might as well watch CNN.
Once the round-up of international news was finished, and the programming changed to a local American story about farmers in the Midwest, her mind began to wander. Not unnaturally, she discovered she was focusing on the nightmare she had just had. It had been awful, and try as she did to shake it off, it remained so vivid it was still dominating her mind. The nightmare had been about Clee, and she could remember every detail of it clearly.
She was in a vast, empty desert. It was warm, pleasant, and even though she was alone she was not afraid. She felt content. She was walking up a sand dune, and when she was on top of it and looked down she saw an oasis below. Feeling thirsty, she ran down the slope of the dune and began to drink the water, scooping it up in her hands, until she saw that it was streaked with blood. She pulled back, filled with horror, and as she crouched on her heels she noticed a crumpled magazine splattered with mud and blood. It was Life. She picked it up, leafed through it, and came across a picture of Clee. The caption said he was dead, killed in action while he was on assignment for the magazine. But it did not say where he had died, or when. And there was no date on the magazine. She was frightened, and turned icy even though it was so hot under the desert sun. She got up and began to run, looking for Clee. She had this feeling that he was somewhere nearby. And alive.
She walked for hours and eventually she was no longer in the desert. She was wearing thick winter clothes and it was dawn on a frosty day. All around her were dead men and the bloody signs of war and destruction. Clee walked towards her through the mist and took hold of her hand. He helped her to climb over the dead bodies. Suddenly they saw a jeep in the distance. Clee said, ‘Look, Nick! We can get a lift back with the retreat!’ He leapt forward, running. She ran, too, but stumbled. When she stood up he was not there. For a split second she was afraid, and then she went searching for him amongst the dead soldiers. But she could not find him. There were miles and miles of dead bodies, and everything was so silent she wondered if it was the end of the world. She saw two bodies lying close to each other side by side. She hurried to them, turned their cold, dead faces to see if either one was Clee. She drew back in shock. One of the bodies was Yoyo. The other was Charles Devereaux. She turned and ran away, stumbling and falling against the dead soldiers in her haste to escape the carnage. At one moment she looked down at her hands and clothes. They were covered in warm, sticky blood from the dead. A wave of horror and nausea swept over her, and just as she began to despair at not finding Clee she reached the end of the battlefield. Now she was walking along a white, sandy beach, and parked under a palm tree was the jeep she had seen earlier with Clee. It was abandoned. She looked towards the dark-blue sea. Not far out she saw a body floating. It was Clee. He beckoned to her. He was alive! She rushed into the water. It was icy but curiously thick like oil, so that swimming was tedious. And then she realized that the sea was not blue but red. It was made of blood.
Clee smiled and held out his hand to her. She reached for it. Their fingers were inches apart. She struggled to grasp his hand. And then his body sank into the sea.
At this moment the dream had ended and she had awakened because someone had screamed. It had been her, she knew that. Nicky shuddered. Goose flesh sprang up on her face and arms, and she pulled the robe around her, feeling suddenly so cold. Rising, she went over to the small bar next to the bookcase and looked at the bottles, reached for the Marc de Bourgogne. The label rang a bell. Of course, it was one of the brandies Charles had imported from France. With a small grimace she put the bottle down on the silver tray, then immediately picked it up again, poured herself a small glass and, taking a sip of it, she slowly walked back to the sofa.
Nicky did not know a lot about dreams, but she was well enough informed to realize that her recent nightmare was simply a manifestation of things jostling around in her subconscious. Once, several years ago, her mother had told her that one dreamed one’s terrors, and that whatever truly frightened a person came to the fore in sleep, when the subconscious rises. And so it did not take her long to analyse her dream. She knew very well what it meant: firstly she was afraid that Yoyo was dead. Secondly, she was worried that Clee, a war photographer and in constant danger, might one day be killed.
It’s all very understandable, she told herself, taking another little sip of the marc. Both men had been on her mind lately, and were therefore at the forefront of her thoughts.
But why had Charles Devereaux been part of the nightmare? She had no answer for herself… but, yes, of course she did. Several times in the last few days he had insinuated himself into her thoughts, for the simple reason that she was in France, where he had travelled often, buying wine for his importing company. And where they had spent those two weeks together before he had chosen to vacate her life.
The more she thought about it, there was no denying the fact that she had dreamed about those three men because each one of them, in his own way, troubled her enormously.
EIGHT
Clee stood staring at the dozen or so transparencies arranged on the large light box in his Paris office, an expression of deep concentration on his face.
After a couple of minutes studying the pictures, he turned to Jean-Claude Roche, who ran his photo agency, Image, and nodded. ‘I think you’re onto a winner, and the pictures are good, Jean-Claude. Damned good, as a matter of fact. So let’s get the guy to come in and see me, and the sooner the better. We can certainly use another world-class photographer around here, there’s more work than we can handle right now.’
Jean-Claude looked pleased. ‘Marc Villier is really terrific, Clee. Very bright, aggressive, yet sensitive. And he possesses the unflinching eye, as you do. You are going to like him, he is… how shall I say… very personable.’
‘Good. And if these photographs are anything to go by, his work is more than excellent. It’s brilliant. Let’s move on. Do you have anything else to go over with me?’
Jean-Claude shook his head. ‘No. Everything is under control. The assignment sheet is on your desk. Everyone is booked out for the next few weeks. Except for you. I’ve kept you free.’
‘That’s great. I could use a few days respite after Beijing and Moscow,’ Clee exclaimed, his face brightening at the prospect of some time off. Turning around, he collected the transparencies which lay on the light
box and handed them to Jean-Claude.
‘Thanks,’ Jean-Claude said as he slipped them into a large envelope. ‘I shall go and call Marc, ask him to come in tomorrow morning. Is that all right with you?’
‘Sure. By the way, where do we stand with my assignment for Life?’
‘They need you for about three weeks, late July and early August. They want you to go to Washington first to photograph the President and Mrs Bush, this is their priority.’
‘Yeah, that figures. Congress is still in session through July, and Bush is probably going to be gone in August, either to Camp David or Kennebunkport. And who am I doing after the President and Mrs B?’
‘They have not said, Clee. But they want you for a few specials. I told them I would give them the date of your arrival as soon as possible. They need to confirm with the White House. So, when will you go?’
‘About the fourteenth, I guess.’ Clee walked over to his cluttered desk and sat down. ‘Ask Marc Villier if he can come in early tomorrow, around seven thirty, eight.’
‘I will.’ Jean-Claude crossed the floor to the door, paused before leaving and looked back at Clee. ‘There will not be any problem, he will come whenever you wish. He wants nothing more than to work with you, Clee. You are his… idol.’
Clee merely smiled, made no comment. He knew all about idols and what having one could mean.
Jean-Claude nodded and left.
Clee’s eyes automatically strayed to the photograph of Robert Capa, which hung on the side wall along with a collection of other pictures, and he felt a little stab of familiar sadness, as he often did when he looked at it. His one and only regret in his life was that he had not known Capa. He had been born too late and Capa’s tragic death had been so untimely, far too soon.
After a moment, he swung his gaze and dropped his eyes to the papers littering his desk, shuffled through them without paying much attention, which was quite normal for him. Paperwork was not his strong suit; in fact, it bored him. He clipped the letters together, scrawled across the top one: Louise, please deal with this stuff any way you see fit, and dropped the pile into the tray in readiness for his secretary the following day.
Glancing at the clock he saw that it was almost six. If he was going to cancel the dinner with his close friends Henry and Florence Devon he had better do it immediately. Henry was a writer and worked at the Paris bureau of Time, and Clee dialled his direct line. It rang and rang then was finally picked up and Henry’s gravelly Boston-accented voice was saying, ‘Allo, oui?’
‘Hank, it’s Clee. How’re you, old buddy?’
‘Jaysus, Clee, don’t tell me you’re cancelling!’
‘I have to, Hank. Business, I’m afraid. Look, I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.’
‘Oh hell, Flo has invited this Lacroix model, whatever-her-name-is. Stunning girl. You wouldn’t want to miss meeting her, would you?’
‘I wish you two would stop trying to fix me up!’ Clee exclaimed a bit impatiently, then he laughed and continued swiftly, ‘There’s really no way I can make it tonight. This meeting just came up and it’s important.’
‘I’ll bet it is. Knowing you, I suspect you’ve suddenly got a hot and heavy date with a beautiful blonde. Or redhead. Or brunette.’
‘If only. From your mouth to God’s ear,’ Clee retorted and chuckled. In a more serious voice he said, ‘Look, I wouldn’t pass up Flo and you and what’s-her-name for some hit-and-run date with a dame. Never. Come on, Hank, surely you know me better than that.’
‘Don’t I just,’ Henry shot back and cackled wickedly down the phone.
Ignoring this, Clee said soberly, ‘Flo usually hedges her bets and invites a couple of single guys as well as me, so I’m sure the Lacroix lady won’t be short of flattering male attention this evening.’
‘That’s quite true. On the other hand, Flo really wanted you to meet her, Clee.’
‘I will. Another time. Tonight I’m stuck. How about lunch tomorrow?’
‘No can do. I’m flying to Nice. I’m working on a piece about the Grimaldis of Monaco, and I have to do some interviews in Monte Carlo.’
‘Then call me when you’re back and we’ll catch up.’
‘It’s a deal. And Clee?’
‘Yes, Hank?’
‘We’ll miss you tonight.’
‘I’ll miss being there. Give my apologies to Flo, and kiss her for me.’ As he hung up Clee made a mental note to send flowers to Florence tomorrow morning. Flowers from Lachaume, no less. That ought to do the trick in the apology department.
Picking up the phone he dialled again. A female voice answered immediately. ‘Is that you, Mel?’
‘Hello, Clee. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong… Mel, I—’
‘You’re cancelling our date tonight.’
‘Listen, honey, I’m sorry, but I have an American picture editor in town, and he—’
‘Must see you tonight, because he’s leaving first thing tomorrow, and it’s vitally important for the agency,’ she finished for him, sounding as if she knew the words by heart.
‘You got it.’
‘Why don’t you come over later, Clee?’
‘It’ll be too late.’
‘I don’t mind.’
There was a small pause. He said finally, ‘I would prefer to see you at the weekend, Mel. If you’re free. We could drive out to the country for dinner on Saturday night. How about it?’
He heard her sigh at the other end of the phone.
She said, after a moment, ‘Oh all right then. But I don’t know why I let you do this to me, Cleeland Donovan. Most other guys couldn’t get away with it.’
‘Get away with what?’
‘Being so elusive.’
‘Ah, but that’s what makes me so very irresistible,’ he retorted flippantly.
‘Sadly, I think that happens to be the truth,’ she answered him in the softest of tones.
‘Okay, so do we have a date for Saturday night?’
‘You know we do, Clee.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, honey, and I’m sorry about tonight.’
They murmured their goodbyes and he dropped the phone back in its cradle. Another order of flowers from Lachaume tomorrow, he thought, putting his feet up on the desk, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes.
Clee felt a sudden and most marvellous surge of relief that he had so easily managed to cancel Flo and Hank, and the conflicting date with Mel as well, by telling a couple of harmless white lies. The truth was he did not have a business date, nor any kind of date, for that matter. On the other hand, he did not have the head for a fancy dinner party at the Devons’; nor was he in the mood to dine alone with Melanie Lowe, bright and lovely as she was, and of whom he was quite fond. He simply wanted to be alone; he had a lot on his mind and a great deal of thinking to do. This was the other reason why he had been so pleased when Jean-Claude had told him he was free, that he had no other assignments before he left for the States to do the work for Life. He was not only going to take it easy for the next week and have a much-needed rest, but he would concentrate on a few personal problems which needed sorting out. One in particular had been at the back of his mind for several weeks.
Opening his eyes, Clee stood up, lifted his jacket off the chair back and shrugged himself into it, then walked towards the door.
He paused halfway across the room and stood for the longest moment looking at the portrait of Capa. Of all the photographs that had been taken of him, whether in combat fatigues or civilian clothes, this was Clee’s favourite. It was of Capa and David ‘Chim’ Seymour, and it had been taken in a leafy Paris square in the early 1950s. The two friends were sitting on metal garden chairs, and Capa was wearing a raincoat over his suit, had a cigarette dangling from his lips. There was a quizzical expression in his eyes and he appeared to be faintly smiling. One hand was resting on his knee, and Clee had always been struck by that hand—the long, sensitive fingers which looked so capable. An
d how darkly handsome Capa was in this picture: the strong masculine features, the thick black brows and hair, the smouldering dark eyes, the seductive mouth all added up to one helluva knock-out guy.
Seemingly Capa had been the possessor of a legendary charm and a debonair personality as well as good looks, and it was not difficult for Clee to imagine why Ingrid Bergman and so many other women had fallen head over heels in love with him.
Everything Clee had ever read about Capa had underscored his intrinsic courage and daring as a photographer, his compassion and humanity as a man. Once, the British magazine Picture Post, now defunct, had run a photograph of Capa, and the headline above the caption had read: the greatest war-photographer in the world. And that was what he had been and it had cost him his life in the end.
Capa had been killed on 25 May 1954, when he had stepped on a Vietminh anti-personnel mine on a small, grassy slope above a dyke, five kilometres outside Dongquithon in Indochina, during the French-Indochina war. He had been forty-one years old. Two years older than I am now, Clee reminded himself, thinking of his own mortality and how fragile life truly was in the long run.
In 1955, Life Magazine and the Overseas Press Club of America had established the Robert Capa Award ‘for the best photographic reporting from abroad requiring exceptional courage and enterprise’. Clee had won the award for his coverage of the war in Lebanon, and it was his most treasured and proudest possession. It was in a box lined with blue velvet and stood on a shelf next to the Capa photograph, set slightly apart from the other international awards he had won for the excellence of his work.
Lifting the lid, Clee stared at the award for a second, and he wondered, as he often had in the past, why he felt so close to a man he had never known and yet whom he missed as if he had been his dearest friend. It constantly baffled him. Yet there was no denying that Capa, a dead man, had been the single most important influence in his life.
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