‘Sometimes it’s pretty tough not to get involved,’ he responded quickly. ‘None of us are that hardboiled, are we? And listen, Arch and the guys felt exactly the same as we did about Yoyo. How could you not get involved with the kid, he’s something else, really special, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
Nicky leaned against the sofa, and looked across at Clee. There was a small silence before she asked softly, ‘What do you think happened to him? You don’t think he’s… dead, do you, Clee?’
‘No, I don’t. I have a feeling Yoyo is hiding out, that he went underground. I’ve always said that to you, and I can only reiterate it now. You’ll see, he’ll turn up, and probably sooner than we think.’
‘You’re not just saying that to make me feel better are you?’ She sounded worried; her eyes were focused steadily on his.
Clee shook his head. His expression was serious. ‘No, I’m not,’ he said, in an adamant tone. He leaned forward, intent on what he had to say to her. ‘Yoyo is bright, enterprising, resourceful. He’ll make it out of China, I feel very strongly about this… I really do have a lot of faith in him.’
As he finished speaking, Clee rose, crossed the library where they were sitting, and swung around when he reached the doorway. ‘I want to show you something. I won’t be a minute.’
***
Whilst Clee was gone, Nicky relaxed, closed her eyes, thinking briefly of Yoyo.
Clee had spoken with such conviction about his fate, she had to believe that he was correct in his assessment of what had happened to Yoyo. She had no alternative, and she must go on hoping that he would surface eventually. Either in New York or Paris or Hong Kong. Practically the last thing she had said to him was that if he arrived in the British Crown Colony and needed help, he was to telephone one of them immediately, person to person collect. She had promised Yoyo that she or Clee or Arch would take it from there, would get him out of Hong Kong no matter what it took.
Opening her eyes, Nicky sat up, leaned forward and reached for her glass, took a sip of the vodka martini Clee had made earlier. Knowing it was futile to worry, she put thoughts of Yoyo at the back of her mind.
She glanced around approvingly, enjoying the peacefulness of this room, understanding why it was Clee’s favourite. It was also hers. Its tranquillity was like a balm to her troubled spirit.
Washed throughout in pale colours, primarily white and cream with touches of melon and terracotta, it was filled with numerous bowls of flowers and tall pots of leafy branches. Hundreds of books spilled out of the shelves soaring to the ceiling, and there were magazines and big art books arranged on various tables. Some of Clee’s photographs, obviously those he liked the most, were framed on the walls, and hanging above the gargantuan stone fireplace was a collection of ethereal watercolours of the area by a local artist. It was a casual room, full of great comfort, and designed for relaxing, reading, listening to music, and watching television and films.
Today the weather had been extremely hot again, oppressively so. Fortunately, the two large fans on the ceiling—Casablanca fans she called them—circulated the air, and now that the sun had slunk off to the west the atmosphere was pleasant. Outside the windows the summer light was rapidly fading, the sky turning a deeper blue as night fell. It was almost eight thirty on Sunday evening; earlier, Clee had suggested that they could have a picnic in the library and watch a video of an old movie later, and she had agreed.
It seemed to Nicky that the weekend had passed in the blink of an eye. She and Clee had pottered around the farm on Friday, after his unexpected arrival, chatting endlessly, laughing, reminiscing and catching up with each other’s news. As Clee had pointed out to her on Friday evening, in the two years they had known each other this was the first time they had ever had a chance to relax together, to talk in the way they had that day—and about so many diverse things.
On Saturday, because it was so much cooler, Clee had driven her to Arles.
‘But don’t expect to see many of Van Gogh’s old haunts,’ he had warned her on the way there. ‘There’s not much left that’s associated with the time he spent in Provence. Even the house he shared with Gauguin has been torn down. But there is the Allée des Sarcophages, which he painted so wonderfully and with such vibrancy. We can go and see that. And of course there are the fields and fields of sunflowers where he used to go and pick bunches for his still lifes. They should be in full bloom now.’
Arles, as Nicky had discovered, was a captivating place, charming, very ancient, almost otherworldly in a certain sense. Clee had taken her sightseeing through the old city and she had been fascinated. Her father had always said she made a good tourist, with her curious mind and investigative nature, her desire to know about everything.
The old city was filled with crumbling Roman ruins juxtaposed against strong medieval stonework; there were numerous monuments and museums, and a lot of other quaint things to see. She had been in her element, and Clee had seemed pleased she was enjoying herself so much.
After strolling for several hours through the old city, with its ramparts and air of antiquity, they had gone for a late lunch at a charming bistro Clee obviously knew well. He was greeted with affection and enthusiasm by Madame Yvonne and Monsieur Louis, the owners, who had given them the best table in the house, according to Clee.
He had ordered for them both, selecting various local dishes, telling her she would love them, and explaining each one to her. He had also insisted she join him in a pastis, the popular local drink, an apéritif tasting of aniseed which turned milky in colour when mixed with the mandatory splash of water.
After lunch they had wandered around the newer part of Arles, window shopping mostly, although Nicky had bought a handful of postcards to send off to Arch, her crew and girlfriends in New York. As she had pored over the cards in the book store, Clee had selected a dozen or so magazines and a stack of newspapers, then they had meandered back to the car.
It was late afternoon when they had set off for the farm, driving along at a leisurely pace, arriving in time for icy champagne on the terrace, and, a little later, a light supper. This had been lovingly prepared by Amelia, and she and Guillaume had served it to them in the garden.
The couple had departed early this morning to go to the wedding of a niece in Marseille, and they would not return until Monday afternoon. As much as she liked and appreciated Amelia, Nicky was glad to have a respite from all the meals, delicious and tempting though they were.
Much to her relief, Clee had not made any comment when she had refused the cold chicken, cold fish, stuffed vegetables and various other dishes Amelia had prepared in advance for their lunch. Instead, she had made herself a small tomato salad, which she had eaten with a chunk of bread torn from a fresh baguette.
Taking another sip of her drink, Nicky reflected on the day. It really had been lovely. She and Clee had done absolutely nothing, mostly because of the intense heat. In the morning they had taken it easy under the trees near the pool, reading magazines and newspapers; in the afternoon they had come up here to the library to listen to Kiri Te Kanawa’s extraordinary rendition of Tosca, performed with the National Philharmonic Orchestra and conducted by Sir Georg Solti.
Nicky had curled up on one of the big, squashy sofas, closed her eyes and drifted off into another world, transported by Puccini’s music and Dame Kiri’s wonderfully melodious voice. Yes, she reflected, it has been a special day, and in so many ways…
***
The door opened and Clee returned carrying two large portfolios.
He strode over to the long library table, and said, ‘I haven’t told you… but I’m planning a photographic book on Beijing, on Tiananmen. I’d like to show you some of the pictures, Nicky.’
‘I’d love to see them,’ she exclaimed, jumping up to join him at the table.
Clee pushed aside a pile of magazines, took the photographs out of the first portfolio and spread them out on the table. The collection wa
s a mixture of colour and black and white.
The pictures were so powerful, had such an amazing sense of immediacy, Nicky caught her breath and instantly she was carried back to Tiananmen Square. Those tense and turbulent days leading up to the bloody massacre at the beginning of the month were suddenly vividly alive in her mind.
Yet again she recognized how accurate Clee’s eye was, and it was unflinching. He had taken very direct and candid photographs of people and events. Each shot had a feeling of intimacy, and the people looked so vibrant, she thought.
‘They’re extraordinary, Clee,’ Nicky said, her admiration clearly written across her face. ‘They’re powerful, extremely moving.’
Her words brought a quick, pleased smile to his face, and he took another batch out of the second portfolio. ‘These are more personal,’ he explained, lining them up, watching her, waiting for her reaction.
Nicky found herself looking down at pictures Clee had taken of her… alone in Tiananmen Square and in other parts of Beijing. Some were with Arch and her crew, with Yoyo, and also with Yoyo and Mai. There were additional shots of Yoyo with the other student leaders, and with Mai, and all of the backgrounds were so familiar to her they brought a lump to her throat: the Martyrs’ Monument, the tent encampment, the Goddess of Democracy, Changan Avenue.
‘Oh Clee, they’re stunning! That old cliché about one photograph saying more than a thousand words is true, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so,’ he agreed with a shrug of his broad shoulders, and brought out the last set of photographs.
Nicky’s eyes were riveted to them. A sudden rush of memories flooded her. She stood staring at them speechlessly.
Across the vast rectangle of stone that was Tiananmen Square came the inexorable flow of tanks and armoured personnel carriers. Down Changan Avenue marched the implacable, cold-faced soldiers, toting machine guns and death for their own people. Standing at the barricades, defiant and angry, were the ordinary citizens of Beijing, shaking their fists at the People’s Liberation Army, and desperately trying to save the lives of the students—the children of China. And blowing in the wind were the giant banners of white bearing the students’ slogans of democracy and freedom, written out boldly in bright red paint the colour of blood.
Finally Nicky’s eyes settled on the pictures of the fallen students, those who had been shot, or crushed by the tanks, who lay dead or dying in pools of their own blood in the streets. All at once she could smell the cordite again, hear the sharp crack of rifles and the ominous rumble of tanks rolling across cold stone, the screams of terror, and a tremor ran through her. She snapped her eyes shut, opened them after a split second, and stared once more at the children of the massacre, innocent victims of a power struggle mounted by decrepit old men.
Nicky was so moved by the breathtaking images Clee had captured on film, tears sprang into her eyes and she brought her hand up to her mouth. She blinked several times, turned to him, but discovered she was unable to speak.
He saw the tears glistening, and he reached out for her, pulled her to him. ‘Don’t be upset,’ he began, and his voice faltered. He had been conscious of her the entire weekend, and never more than today, and he knew now that it was a mistake to take her in his arms in this way. Her perfume was fragrant in his nostrils, her body warm and vibrantly alive next to his.
He let go of her, smiled faintly. Nicky had never looked so lovely to him, so glowing and youthful. She wore no makeup, but then he had always thought she looked wonderful without it. Her skin was a golden brown, her blonde hair sunstreaked after the week in Provence, and her eyes seemed bluer than ever in her bronzed face. It took all of his self-control not to reach out for her again and kiss her.
She said, ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘What?’ he asked, startled, and wondered if she had just read his mind.
‘For me to be upset… for everyone who looks at these pictures to be upset. And to be touched and moved and appalled and horrified and angered.’
‘I suppose so, yes,’ he admitted.
‘They will be. The photographs are so stunning they literally take my breath away. I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach. They pack one hell of a punch, that’s for sure. The book is going to be sensational.’
‘I hope so, darling.’ He held his breath. The word darling had popped out by accident, but if she had noticed this careless slip of the tongue she certainly did not show it. In fact, she was displaying no reaction whatsoever.
Clee began to put the pictures away and Nicky helped him. At one moment he stopped, and said, ‘You know, Nick, I can do the captions okay, I’m used to doing that, but what this book needs is some really great text up front. An introduction. I’ve been thinking… well, you’re one of the best writers I know. Would you be interested in doing it, in collaborating with me?’
His suggestion took her aback and she swung to face him, her surprise apparent. ‘I don’t know,’ she said hesitantly.
‘Who better than you, Nick? You were there, were witness to it all, and you felt it as acutely as I did. You’d bring the right emotions to the writing. The text must back up the pictures, must also pack a punch, as you call it. Say yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Hey, that’s great, babe!’ He wanted to hug her but he refrained. He exclaimed, with a huge smile, ‘We’ll make a terrific team!’
Nicky laughed and walked over to the coffee table, picked up her glass and raised it. ‘I think we ought to drink to that.’
‘Agreed.’ Clee found his glass, clinked it to hers. ‘So… here’s to our collaboration!’
‘To our collaboration!’ she repeated, and they both took a sip of their drinks.
‘These are lukewarm, they need topping up,’ Clee announced, walking over to the chest where he had deposited the pitcher of martinis and bucket of ice earlier. He threw a handful of ice cubes into the jug, added more vodka and a splash of vermouth, then carefully stirred the contents.
As he walked back to her, carrying the jug, he said, ‘Shall we have a swim before dinner?’
‘Why not?’ Nicky began to chuckle. ‘You said picnic, earlier, which meant a snack, as far as I’m concerned. Now, suddenly, it’s dinner. What is it about me that makes everyone want to feed me? First Amelia, now you.’
‘That’s Amelia’s calling in life… getting slender girls plump.’
‘Oh, she does it all the time, does she?’
‘She’s never had the opportunity with any girls of mine,’ he swiftly shot back. ‘I was sort of… well, I was kidding you, Nicky. Anyway, Amelia’s forever wanting to stuff me too, so join the club.’
‘I think I’d like something very American for our picnic,’ she said, holding her glass out to be filled.
‘That’s tough in this house,’ he answered, pouring the martini. ‘Amelia has left us all sorts of delicious goodies, and naturally they’re all Provençal. But I’ll see what I can rustle up. In the meantime, let’s take our drinks down to the pool and have that swim, shall we?’
‘What a great idea, Clee.’
TWELVE
She floated towards him in the water.
‘It’s lovely, Clee, so refreshing,’ she called out. ‘I thought it would be warm like a bath tub, but it isn’t, it’s perfect.’
‘The breeze is cooling everything off,’ he called back.
Nicky made no response, and floated closer to the end of the pool where Clee was catching his breath after several fast laps. Suddenly, she flipped over onto her stomach and swam forward, coming to a stop next to him.
Clinging to the side of the pool with one hand, she pushed her wet hair back with the other, and laughed softly, as if to herself, shaking her head at the same time.
‘What is it?’
‘I was just thinking how odd it is that we sometimes forget that the simplest things in life can be so wonderful… the best things of all.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he replied, and swung his head,
glanced around the garden. Just before they had left the house and come outside to swim, he had turned on the small spots hidden in the foliage, and the shrubs and trees and flowers were now highlighted by circles of pale silver light. Thanks to his sister’s remarkable talent, the spots had been strategically placed, and there was nothing artificial about the effect she had created. The garden looked as natural as it did during the day, and, to Clee, infinitely more beautiful after sunset.
He lifted his eyes and looked up. Overhead the sky had changed colour yet again; the mauves and amethysts had deepened to marine blue and a dim and heavy twilight was descending. A peaceful hush had settled over everything, and the only sounds were the rustling of the trees in the copse, the faint slap of the water as it lapped against the sides of the pool. The air was clear, much cooler, and sweet with the fragrance of honeysuckle and frangipani which grew close to the old stone wall running down one side of the garden.
Clee took several deep breaths, exhaled, and brought his eyes back to Nicky. ‘What could be better than being in this glorious spot… the two of us here together, enjoying each other’s company.’
‘Nothing could, it’s pure heaven,’ Nicky said, ‘and it’s been such a wonderful weekend, Clee. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. And this is a perfect end to an especially lovely day.’
‘It’s not the end yet,’ he said, looking at her carefully, ‘we still have the evening ahead of us—’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s only nine thirty.’
‘Ah yes, the night is young,’ she answered, smiling, her affection for him filling her face.
‘But it is, Nicky,’ he asserted. ‘We can stay up as late as we wish, since we don’t have to be awake early in the morning. Neither of us has a deadline to meet, you know.’
‘Thank God,’ she replied with a light laugh. ‘I must admit, it has been nice to have a vacation. My first in two and a half years, I might add.’
Remember Page 11